Flower of Ice and Steel
by annafan
Summary: "When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die?" (JRR Tolkien)
1. To sleep, perchance to dream

**Chapter 1: To sleep, perchance to dream.**

**Disclaimer: As ever, the Lord of the Rings is not mine. I do this for my own entertainment only, not for fun.**

**This is an idea I've been toying with for some time now. Ever since I first read it, I have loved Tolkien's story of ****Éowyn and Faramir. This is my attempt to fill out some of the details. **

**Thanks as usual to Lady Peter for looking over some of this story and making very helpful suggestions. Any remaining mistakes are mine, of course.**

**Warning: Rated M for strong language, mentions of past sexual abuse, consensual sex scenes, graphic descriptions of battle wounds.**

_When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? (Return of the King : The Houses of Healing)._

Béma, my shield arm aches. It is still splinted. To be honest, I do not mind the physical pain. It keeps me anchored, distracts me from the waking nightmare of my memories. It is the mental pain that I cannot bear.

It is two days since I woke from fevered dreams, dreams in which my whole body was consumed with agony, and my mind tortured to the depths of my soul. I was dragged back from a living death by the voice of my brother,Éomer, calling to me, grief stricken. And by the hands of Aragorn, the heir of Isildur.

What can I say of these two men? My brother, childhood companion and friend, who shared my grief and offered me comfort on the death of our parents, when we were but children. My ally through the darkest days when Grìma Wormtongue, Saruman's spy, held sway over Edoras and poisoned our Uncle's mind. And Aragorn, the Ranger from the North, such a recent part of my life, but so dear to me in such a short time. Aragorn, who brought me back from the brink of death. Aragorn, who offered me kindness and friendship. Yet to my shame, I spurned his kindness and friendship, for I wanted only his love. And the knowledge that I could not have his love drove me to embrace death in battle, but death eluded me. I came close, and would have rode on to further battles, except that now I am rendered helpless by my injuries.

Éomer and Aragorn have gone to war once more, and this time I have not been able to follow them. They have gone to certain death, and I cannot join them. I do not expect to see them again. We who are left can only count the days until their defeat, and the destruction of our world, crushed beneath the tide of the oncoming hordes of the Dark Lord.

All I can do is to lie and think on the events that led me here. There was a time in Edoras when I found release at last from the defiling attentions of Wormtongue, and the constant fear that one day he would take me by force. I found release in the restoration of my beloved Uncle, Théoden Cyning, to his right mind. And I found relief in the brief respite from the worries of my life, the agony of losing Théodred, my kinsman, cousin, almost as dear to me as my brother.

As we gathered arms and armour for the journey to Helm's Deep, Aragorn had come upon me practising with my sword, and had parried my strokes with his dagger. In the moment we stood, blades locked, I looked into his eyes, and I teetered on the brink, just in balance, but ready to fall at any moment. And on the journey, as we travelled side by side, deep in conversation, his ready wit brought laughter to my lips for the first time I could remember in months, perhaps even years. Then I fell over the brink, lost in a tide of feelings for him that I could not control.

For two days I had his company. His eyes were kind and full of humour, even in those dark times. His conversation fascinated me, comforted me, lightened my burden. He told me tales of chivalry, of high renown won in battle, of brave deeds, tales from the Riddermark in earlier times, from Gondor, dark tales from the ancient North, from long-forgotten Westernesse. He told marvellous, magical tales of elves, and tales of the courage and stalwartness of dwarves. For two evenings I had gentle memories of him. I would replay our conversations, remembering his words and the expressions that had passed his face as he talked. I allowed myself daydreams of what might be to come to lull me to sleep. Daydreams of conversation which turned from easy friendship to something more. Daydreams of gentle embraces, and imagined kisses, soft and innocent, of protestations of love.

And in the two nights, I dreamed dreams that were anything but innocent. Dreams of longing and desire. Kisses which were not soft, but hard and hot and needy, of tongues slipping inside mouths, of the taste of each other. Dreams of the feel of his hands, roughened from years of wielding a sword, hands which tangled in my hair, roamed over my body, sought out my skin under my clothes. Dreams where his lips followed his hands, leaving a silken trail of heat and desire over my skin. Dreams of naked, tangled limbs and bodies, covered in a sheen of sweat, melting into one and fracturing, shattering into millions of fragments of pure rapture. In the mornings I would wake, and struggle to keep the blush from my cheeks as I walked beside him, talked to him. And after these dreams, as I talked, I fought to keep control of myself, fought to damp down the feelings of desire which coiled deep inside me. Desire which no maiden should feel, no daughter of the line of kings should allow.

But though young and a maiden, I was not naïve. No woman of the Riddermark, no matter how young, could be ignorant of the mechanics of begetting children, surrounded as we were by the horses we bred. I was four and twenty, and most women my age would already have been married and borne their first child. At seventeen I had fancied myself in love with one of Théoden Cyning's guard, a rider in his Royal Eored. But I had done nothing more than exchange kisses with him. Éomer and Théodred had seen to that. The irony of the situation did not escaped me, even at seventeen. They guarded my honour with unceasing vigilance, while they themselves wenched their way round both East and West Fold.

By twenty, my Uncle the King should have been looking for suitors for me from among the young sons of his Lords and Marshals. It is not the way of the Riddermark to arrange women's marriages, so I would have been allowed to choose a man I found kind and comely from among them. But then Grìma Wormtongue rose to power within Théoden Cyning's council, by the simple expedient of ensuring his rivals met with unfortunate accidents or were subject to orc ambushes. He cast his evil spell over the King, and turned his evil, lustful eyes towards me. Seeking me for himself, he got Théoden to veto any suitor who might have been considered appropriate. As his attentions became more marked, he allowed himself more and more liberties with my person, his wandering hands marauding, grabbing parts of my body in passing. I found myself without allies or protectors at court. As Théoden's mind disintegrated, I spiralled further and further into utter despair. There seemed nothing I could do to stem the inevitable. Wormtongue would get his way, and the fact that it was against my will, that everything about him disgusted me, that his pawing hands turned my stomach, all this would only add spice to the eventual rape as far as he was concerned.

At my wits' end, I pleaded with Théodred to bed me. If I had to be defiled by Saruman's worm, at least I could lose my maidenhood in a manner of my choosing. But Théodred would not. He said it would debase me and him, a coupling without desire or passion, born of desperation. And furthermore, he was adamant that such a coupling would border on incestuous, because we had been brought up together and he thought me as much his sister as his cousin. A mere week later, Théodred was dead, slain in an orc raid, a raid almost certainly orchestrated by Grìma. The Worm even tried to corner me as I laid out my cousin's body ready for his burial. Only Éomer's timely arrival saved me. And then Grìma contrived to persuade Théoden Cyning to banish Éomer from Meduseld, accusing him of warmongering. My fate seemed sealed.

But the fates had not ceased toying with me. They gave me brief respite, only to dash my brief happiness on new shoals. First, Aragorn and his comrades arrived in the company of the Grey Pilgrim. Gandalf restored Theoden to his right mind and cast Wormtongue from Edoras. If I am honest, my thoughts turned to Aragorn almost from the minute I first saw him, seeing him as my rescuer in my darkest hour. Small wonder then that I fell in love with him. And I had my two days of happiness on the journey to Helm's Deep. But then in one fateful instant, I asked him about the jewel he wore round his neck, and all my hopes crumbled to dust. His face lit from within by love, his eyes reflecting the memory of her beauty and wisdom, he told me of Arwen Undomiel. How could I, a mere mortal, compete with an Elf Maiden said to be the image of her foremother, Luthien Tinuviel, the fairest child of Eru Illuvitar ever to walk the paths of Middle Earth? Aragorn took the paths of the dead, and I, with no hope left to me, took the path I hoped would lead to my death.

But I live, still. And so I lie in this narrow bed, in a small, cell, staring at the ceiling. A single candle gutters on the shelf beside the bed, but I cannot bring myself to blow it out. I am of the proud line of the kings of the Riddermark, but I fear the shadows of night. Aragorn drew me back from the brink, but the black breath still lingers over me like an evil miasma. Yet at the same time, I am tired, so very tired. I crave sleep with every fibre, every sinew in my body. But my mind resists what my body desires. To sleep is to dream, and my dreams cause more pain than my physical injuries, more pain than my memories of terror and lost kin, more pain even than the knowledge that Aragorn does not love me. And more than pain, they terrify me. I, who slew the Witch King in my waking life, cannot slay him in my dreams. My dreams are a place of terror beyond imagining.

I cannot sleep, nor can I bear to lie in darkness. But whether I will it or not, sleep claims me, and my thoughts slip from the grasp of my conscious mind.

I find myself back in Edoras. I have found my sword, wrapped in oiled silk within a carved chest. With a shimmering, musical sound, it sings to me as I draw it from its sheath. It feels heavy in my hands, but my wrists remember the strength they had when I used to spar with Théodred on the practice grounds. I swing the sword, bringing it through the patterns the swordsmaster used to make us execute, day after day, week after week. A figure of eight, controlling the blade with both wrists, a parry, swivel on the ball of my foot, maintain my guard as I turn, another pass as I step forward onto my left foot, tracing out an arc with the point as I return the blade to its position guarding my body, before raising it to parry an imaginary enemy. But the percussive sound of metal on metal is all too real. I am drawn from my trance like state to find Aragorn's dagger blocking the movement of my blade, his grey eyes fixed intently on mine.

In the dream we are not in the public space of the Golden Hall, surrounded by others gathering their weapons and preparing their armour. We are sparring in private, in my chamber. And Aragorn does not drop his blade after our eyes have met. Instead he keeps it in place, then forces me onto the back foot. With another wordless song of steel, the blades slide past one another until the hilts lock together, our knuckles grazing against one another. I take another step backwards. Aragorn is taller and stronger, and forces me to retreat until my back is against the wall. All the time, his eyes never leave mine. They are intent, unblinking, yet strangely without emotion. I breathe heavily, as though the fight has been a vigorous one, but I know that it is his proximity that makes my breath labour. He brings his other hand up to mine, and closes it round my sword hand. He lets the dagger fall to the flag stones, then uses his right hand to uncurl my fingers from round the hilt. With a sound like a clanging cymbal, my blade falls to the stone floor. He laces his fingers through mine and presses my hands to the wall at either side of us.

Still his gaze holds mine. He releases my left hand, and his fingers ghost over the surface of my dress, moving upwards to my face. They trace slowly over my cheek, then along the line of my jaw. I can feel the callouses from years of battle and hardship. His fingertips trail down the side of my neck, along my shoulder, then back along my collar bone. It is strange, but in this dream I feel no desire. There is a stark contrast to my earlier dreams of passion, which somehow linger as memories in the background. Even within the dream, this contrast puzzles me. I am oddly detached from my body. My mind seems to float free from emotion, somewhere above the scene, a dispassionate observer even as his fingers reach the laces on my bodice and start to unlace it. This dream has nothing of the heat and desire of those earlier ones. Yet its very coldness seems somehow more sinful, more sordid than any of the naked wanton ecstasy of those earlier products of my fevered subconscious.

His hand caresses my skin along the top of my loosened bodice, then eases the fabric down to release my breast, fingers teasing my nipple till it hardens. But even as I gasp with the sensation, his features start to dissolve, like molten wax, or like smoke and flames dancing in a fire. They melt, then reform, and I am staring into the narrow, slit-like eyes of Grima Wormtongue. His hot, fetid breath wafts across my face, strands of his greasy hair stick to my cheek, his sweating, filthy hands are everywhere, running across my body. I push at his chest, but worm that he is, he is still too strong. I cannot force him away. Bile rises in my throat and I retch uncontrollably.

And suddenly I am in the middle of Pelennor Fields. But I am not wearing my armour. I am wearing the same dress, laces undone, bodice slipping from my shoulders. I stand my ground, weapon raised, all the time aware of the skirts restricting my movement. The Witch King stands tall on a slight rise in the ground. His black robes flutter around his form, the hood cast forward, no sign of a face within. His dead steed lies crumpled behind him, leathery wings battered and torn.

My hair blows in the wind, strands whipping across my face. As I hold my sword, it shakes in my hand. My concentration is broken by the realisation that my breasts are still exposed. I try to pull my bodice back into place, but as soon as I let go to draw my sword, my sleeves slide back round my biceps, impeding my arm movements. The Wraith swings his morning star, bringing it crashing down towards me. I try to move, but the heavy folds of fabric encumbering my legs get in the way. I throw up my left arm to deflect the blow, but in the dream I have no shield. My arm is smashed beneath the weight of the iron ball and its viscious points, blood spurting bright and crimson from its shattered form. In a last desperate effort, as I feel my life blood ebb from my veins, I jab the sword towards the black void where the wraith's head should be.

As my sword point makes contact, the black hood falls back, the dark mists obscuring the face evaporate, and the features of the creature I have killed become visible. A straight nose, a well defined jaw, covered in a short beard, blue-grey eyes, dark hair curling to touch his collar. It takes me moments to make sense of what I am seeing, then I realise that I have driven my sword into Aragorn's throat.

**Cover Art: Alix van Zijl on Aramis, jousting in the tiltyard at the Royal Armouries Museum, Leeds, August Bank Holiday weekend, 2013. She was placed second in this round of the competition. Her armour is a copy of Milanese armour, circa 1470. Image used with Alix's kind permission.**

**I notice that Thanwen, one of my favourite authors, is also writing a fic about this! I can't wait to read it, but sadly will have to hold off till this one is finished, as I want to write my own version of this, without subconsciously borrowing from anyone else.**


	2. The Steward of the City

**Chapter 2: The Steward of the City.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected with the Lord of the Rings. **

**I have used some of the dialogue from the book in this chapter, because I see no way of avoiding it, but hopefully, when woven into ****É****owyn's inner monologue, this counts as fair use. I have also strayed a little bit from Tolkien's version (which I hope purists will forgive).**

**Thanks, as always, to Lady Peter for her helpful suggestions. Remaining mistakes are of course mine.**

_And she looked at him and saw the grave tenderness in his eyes, and yet knew, for she was bred among men of war, that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle. (Return of the King: The Steward and the King)._

"Aragorn." I try to cry out, but no sound comes.

I cannot move. I know I am awake, but it feels as if a heavy weight is forcing me down onto the bed. I try to move my legs, but they are lifeless, inert. The candle has gone out, and I cannot see. It feels as though the darkness is a thick, suffocating blanket, pressing over my face. I struggle to breathe, my breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

Gradually, the panic subsides, though not the chill fear that invades me. My legs are tangled in the sheets. My shift is soaked with sweat, and I shiver, despite the stuffiness of the room. I toss and turn, it seems for hours, until the first weak grey light, the harbinger of dawn, filters through the window. At last, comforted by the return of day, I manage to sleep once more, without dreams.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"My lady." I wake to feel a hand shaking my good shoulder gently. "I have brought your breakfast. It is the tenth hour of the day." The maid has opened the curtains. I blink against the light streaming through the window. My eyes feel as though they are full of grit, the aftermath of my interrupted sleep. Reluctantly, I push myself into a sitting position, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

"I have also brought hot water and a washing basin," the maid says. "The healers have said you may rise, if you wish. I shall give you a few minutes, then come back to help you dress." She places a towel over the chair. There is a bowl and jug of hot water on the small table beneath the high window, next to a tray with a simple breakfast. She bobs her head respectfully, then retreats through the door.

I stand, for the first time, and am taken aback at how weak my legs have become. I feel as thought they might give way underneath me at any moment. My head swims, and for a moment I think I may sink back onto the bed. Then the dizziness passes and I manage to take a few steps over to the table. The water makes a familiar splashing noise as I pour it into the bowl. I bend forward and rinse my face, then, very carefully, I ease my shift off. Even so, I gasp as it tugs at my left shoulder. I take the wash cloth and sponge as much of my body as my restricted range of movements allow. There is a tap at the door. I draw the towel round me.

"I have brought your dress." It is the maid's voice, and I bid her enter. She has brought a clean shift, fine linen blouse, and a plain blue dress. She helps me to put the clothes on, then laces the dress up for me. Finally, she takes a square of cloth which she folds diagonally, then fixes my shield arm in a sling fastened about my neck.

"Please could you return after I have eaten? I need to visit the healers, but I am not sure of my way around," I say. Then, as an afterthought, I add, " Also, could you find my riding clothes for me?"

"I will take you to the healers as soon as you have broken your fast, my lady. But I am not sure that I will be able to find your riding clothes. I fear they had to be cut from your body when you were brought here from the battle field."

I try to hide my disappointment, and give the maid my thanks before she withdraws once more. Béma, how am I to ride to war in a skirt? Still, the first task is to persuade the healers that I am well enough to go. Time enough after that to track down some leggings and a tunic, and find my armour. Surely that will be intact. Then I must find the stables and Windfola. I hope he has been well looked after. Suddenly I feel a wave of sadness take me. A homesickness, a yearning for my lost kinsmen, for Théoden and Théodred. I long to find Windfola, and wrap my arms round his neck and bury my face in his mane. Horses are simple creatures; they make no demands, but they sense their rider's thoughts and feelings. He would comfort me, I know.

I sit at the table. Suddenly I realise how thirsty I am, and gulp down most of the cup of water. Then I tackle the bread and cheese. The bread is dry. The apple I save for last. It is wrinkled, the end of last Autumn's crop, carefully stored over the winter, but still sweet. A bit more water, and I am ready to stand once more. This time, I do not feel as dizzy, and walk to the door with reasonable steadiness. The maid is just outside.

She leads me down narrow stone corridors, winding their way through a maze of passages, until we pass through a doorway into a large hall. The hall is filled with camp beds, as far as the eye can see. There is a background hum of noise, of men moaning softly. No of agony as in the first hours after a battle. This is the constant hurt that sets in later, the days of steady, unrelenting pain that make the hours drag by. Here and there women in plain dresses, their hair tied up out of the way in scarves, flit from one bed to another. They offer water, sponge brows, change dressings. I see men who have lost limbs, men with bandages round their torsos, men with heads swathed in linen strips. Some have the dark hair typical of Gondor, others the blond hair that marks them out as my countrymen.

"We have stitched their wounds, but, alas, we have no more tincture to dress their wounds or poppy syrup to soothe their pain," says a voice beside me. I turn to see a tall woman in a brown dress. She is in her middle years. Her eyes fix on me, a steady, thoughtful, intelligent look. "There is little we can do beyond making them comfortable, and praying that inflammation and fever does not take them."

"I thank you, madam, for all you and the other ladies of this house have done for my countrymen, and those of your country who fought along side them," I say. "You have undoubtedly saved many who would else be in the halls of our fathers.

"We have merely done our part as best we might," she replied. "May I be of any service to you?"

"Madam, I must also thank you for your efforts in healing my wounds. But I am much improved, and wish now to be of service to my country once more. I would have you release me from your care, that I may follow my brother the King to the last battle against the darkness."

"My lady," she says, bowing her head slightly, "I have no doubt of your valour, nor of determination. But your shield arm is broken. Whatever the strength of your mind to embark upon this venture, it is not matched by the strength of your body."

"I thank you for speaking so frankly. But nonetheless, I would still ride out, if I might be allowed."

"It is not in my power to release you before your arm is healed. However, I will take you to the Warden of these houses. You may plead your case before him, though, in truth, I hope for the sake of your unhealed wounds that he will not be swayed." Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, she leads me into a side room, where an elderly man stands at a bench, mixing potions. I try my best to put the same case to him that I have put to the woman, but he too is not to be swayed. In desperation, I plead instead for news.

"Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing."

"There are no tidings, save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale; and men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief," the Warden says. He launches into a homily about the strange paradox offered by the existence of a warrior who can also heal wounds, and the evils of war in general. Béma, he is long-winded. Eventually in exasperation, I interrupt him.

"It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden. And those who have not swords can still die upon them. I should sooner choose to die in battle."

The Warden looks at me. His face shows pity, which annoys me, but also I think a hint of admiration. I feel frustration welling up inside me. I cannot stand by and do nothing.

"Is there no deed to do? Who commands in this City?" I blurt out.

The warden mutters a few disconnected sentences, before saying "The Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

"Where can I find him?" I demand. The Warden's answer takes me by surprise. Apparently, this Lord Faramir is also recovering from his wounds in the house of healing, and the Warden offers to take me to him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Warden leads me through a low archway, shaded by bougainvillaea whose purple flowers make vivid splashes of colour against the grey stone walls. We walk into a courtyard garden. After two days in the featureless room, with only memories of death on the battlefield to occupy my mind, I am almost overcome by the sensations that assault me. The gentle splash of water in the fountain, the vivid green of the plants, the scents of the flowers, all seem preternaturally intense. The heat of the sun burns my face. My mind is caught in a whirl of impressions, and I feel a desperate urge to run back to the tiny cell, even though I have hated every moment of my confinement there. I take deep breaths and try to school my mind to focus on one thing at a time.

At the end of the gravel path in front of me is a tall man, with dark hair in loose curls touching his collar. He stands in front of the low wall at the end of the garden. Below the wall, the city falls in steps down to the outer walls. Beyond lie the flat grasslands stretching towards the river, the grasslands where Théoden fell. I catch glimpses of the Pelennor fields in my mind's eye, and I feel my body tense. I grit my teeth and force back the memories of the battlefield, of the stench of blood and death, the reek of fear and loosened bowels. I turn my attention instead to the man before me. His back is to us; he looks eastwards towards the distant mountains, where the black shadow hangs in the sky, belying the sunshine that falls on us. He is tall, of a slender build, but his shoulders are broad and he carries himself with the stance of a warrior.

"My Lord," the Warden says. The man turns. I am aware of grey eyes, assessing me. His gaze is shrewd; the sort of captain who can take the measure of a man under his command within moments. But it also holds something I do not want. I can see the pity written across his face, and I despise it. I want no man's pity. But his gaze continues, uninterrupted by my thoughts. I am seized with a strange feeling that he sees instantly my sadness, as if he knows of the tangled sheets and night terrors. And it frightens me that he can see so much. I am so wrong-footed by his keen gaze that I almost miss the Warden's words, introducing me. I hear him say that I am not content, and that I wish to speak to the Steward. Somehow, his tone manages to make me sound like some sort of petulant, demanding court beauty, stamping her foot when she feels not enough attention is being paid to her. To my surprise, I feel an urgent need to correct that impression. Somehow I do not want this grave and shrewd man standing in front of me to think badly of me.

"Do not misunderstand him,lord. It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on."

The Lord Faramir gives me another disturbingly appraising look, then signals for the Warden to go. He leaves, with a bow. The Lord's next words surprise me.

"What would you have me do, lady? I am also a prisoner of the healers." Again, I see that look in his eyes. But now I realise it is not pity. It is a sort of tenderness, a sort of compassion. He too wishes to stand beside his comrades, to venture all on the last desperate throw of the die, even if, when the die is cast, both the wager and the world are lost. And I can see his strength too. He would not back down from any challenge, I realise, and he is forged of that tempered steel that makes the sort of leader that men will follow even when all is lost.

"What is it you wish of me," he asks.

"That you persuade the Warden to release me from my confinement in these houses," I say. My voice sounds cold and detached even to my own ears, but I am suddenly hit with a wave of doubt. Perhaps he will just think me childish and petulant. Instead he is patient as he tells me that he himself is still subject to the Warden's commands and is not prepared to over-rule the man in matters of healing.

"But I do not desire healing," I find myself blurting out. My words come out in a rush, ill thought out, revealing far too much of myself to the man in front of me. I tell him, even as my mind tells me I should not, that I wish to follow Éomer to war, or better still, to follow Théoden's path to death in battle.

For the first time, his calm, thoughtful countenance is troubled. He appears shocked by the way I have openly stated I am willing to embrace death, but rapidly schools his features. His voice level, he appeals to my rationality. He tells me it is too late for me to follow them, even if I were strong enough. But then his expression slips again, allowing me to see a glimpse of pain to match my own.

He adds, not as an afterthought, but as if this is something he has been reflecting on for some time, "But death in battle may come to all of us yet. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded."

He tells me that we must be patient. There is something about the way he phrases it, his words "You and I," which tell me he too rails against his captivity.

The offer of pity which I thought I saw earlier moved me only to anger. But the offer of companionship in my suffering reaches me, undoes me. I struggle to hold back tears, hot and stinging. I manage to murmur only that my room does not face east. For the first time, Faramir smiles at me, a smile of gentleness and understanding, those shrewd eyes filled now with compassion. He offers to find me a room that faces east, and says that I will find him here in the garden, also looking out to the east. His next words surprise me, however.

"It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

I can feel myself blushing, but I manage to look him in the eyes, and, slightly surprised that I can be so bold, ask him why my presence would ease his cares.

He starts to say something, then appears to think better of it. He pauses for a while, as if deciding how, or indeed whether to put his thoughts into words.

"In such a dark hour, your fair company would comfort me and take my mind off the interminable waiting we both must face," he says, simply. "For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."

"Alas, not me, lord. Shadow lies on me still." I feel embarrassed by his words. I am not fair, I am soiled, rough, unmaidenly. I try to demur: "I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle." Then, realising I must sound an ill-mannered ingrate, I manage to thank him for his invitation. I curtsey awkwardly, then take my leave.

It is only when I return to my room I realise how tired I am, tired to the bone. I lie on my bed and start to drift off to sleep. My last thoughts before I lose consciousness are to wonder what I could possibly have in common with the shrewd, sad man of Gondor, to wonder what topics we could possibly find to talk about. And then, for once, no dreams assail me.

**Thank you for the reviews – they are much appreciated.**


	3. Classical Poetry

**Chapter 3 Classical Poetry**

**Usual disclaimer applies.**

_And he called to her, and she came down, and they walked on the grass or sat under a green tree together, now in silence, now in speech. And each day after they did likewise.(Return of the King: The Steward and the King)._

I sit in the garden, a book of poetry on my lap. I have never really been one for poetry. And I must have read the stanza in front of me at least three times, without actually taking in any of it. My eyes simply slide over the text, sightlessly. I sigh, then look around the garden instead. Down a narrow path between the low hedges of hornbeam which edge beds of herbs, I see the tall figure of the Steward approaching. He walks slowly, as one who has still not quite shaken off the injuries that have confined him to these houses. Under his arm, he carries a book. He halts beside my resting place.

"May I join you, my Lady?"

"By all means, my Lord," I reply, and move up the stone bench to make room for him. He sits at the other end, half turned towards me.

"What are you reading?" he asks, with a polite smile.

"_The Pastorals_ of Atanatar Alcarin. In translation, obviously. Though I must admit, it is more a case of what I am not reading. I am finding it hard to concentrate."

His smile broadens. "Alcarin is not the most exciting of reads at the best of times, and these are far from being the best of times. I remember struggling through them with my tutor as a young boy. As an adult, it always struck me as ironic that one of the most decadent of Gondor's rulers should choose to write poetry celebrating the lives of simple country folk. Or at least, his imagined version of the lives of simple country folk. Later chroniclers wrote of the excesses of his reign: 'precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with.'"

I am not quite sure how to respond to this. Coming from another man this speech would sound like that of a pompous windbag showing off his knowledge. But the open, friendly look on Lord Faramir's face suggests that he is simply interested in my opinion on the matter, assuming me to be as well versed in the subject as he is. A slightly awkward silence ensues. Although King Théoden saw to it that my brother and I were well educated by the standards of our people, I feel neither able nor particularly inclined to converse about the minutiae of Gondorian history. I take a sidelong glance at the book he holds.

"Ecthelion's _Art of War,_" I say. "Now there is a book that is appropriate to times like these. Have you found any helpful strategies in there? I seem to remember him discussing the relative sizes of one's own and the opposing force, saying 'If equally matched, we can offer battle; if slightly inferior in numbers, we can avoid the enemy; if quite unequal in every way, we can flee from him.' Not an encouraging thought: without doubt the hordes of Mordor outnumber our forces many tens if not hundreds to one. And yet Lord Aragorn has led our armies into a direct engagement with them."

"An apposite quotation, my Lady, and, sadly, one which does not offer much hope. However, I have been considering this passage." He begins to read, pausing at each sentence while he construes a translation, for the text is in the original Sindarin. "'All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.'

"This, in a nutshell, is Lord Aragorn's strategy. He hopes to lead attention away from the quest, conducted by stealth, which enters the borders of Morder unnoticed, by leading a desperate and doomed frontal attack on the Black Gates."

His words take me by surprise. I know of the quest he refers to, from conversations with Merry. But I had no idea that he would know of it. My amazement must show on my face, for he continues, rather contritely.

"Your pardon, Madam, I see your surprise that I should talk of this openly, and indeed you are right to be cautious. Suffice it to say that it is not common knowledge, nor would I discuss it were it not for the fact that Master Meriadoc told me you already knew of this quest. I encountered his comrades, two Periannath travelling through Ithilien with the intent of climbing the stairs of Cirith Ungol. Frodo himself told me of their goal."

"If you have met Frodo, then you probably know more of this matter than I."

"Possibly. I know of the immense burden he bears, a burden which led to the death of my brother, Boromir," Faramir says, his face grave.

"I am sorry to hear that you lost your brother," I say, unsure what comfort I can offer.

"This war takes that which is best and most noble from both our countries, and, if what Merry has told me, from both our lives. I have lost my brother and my father, you, your uncle and cousin."

"Alas for Théoden and Théodred," I say. "They were as a father and a brother to me."

"And we have also both been subject to the black breath," says Faramir.

"You have, I think, been told my story," I say, "But how did you come to find yourself in tourney against a Nazgûl?"

Faramir is silent. I fear that I have asked about something the memory of which pains him deeply. "I am sorry," I continue, "For I know, only too well, how fearsome they are. I relive the horror every night in my dreams. I should not ask you to relive it in the telling."

"No, the real pain is elsewhere, in the circumstances of our doomed attempt to re-take Osgiliath. But I will not talk of it here."

"Then let us walk for a while in the gardens, and talk of things other than war and loss," I suggest. And so we walk in the winter sunshine. I am amazed at how many things grow here, even flowering, at this time of year, and we discuss the difference that a few hundred leagues makes to the ferocity of the winter. North of the mountains, in my home, the thick snows of winter still will not have melted on the higher pastures.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the afternoon, I meet Merry. It is good to see him. Finally, I feel as though I can completely relax. The Steward, while clearly well-meaning and a thoughtful, humane man, is not exactly easy to talk to. Merry walks towards me, and I stoop and throw my good arm around him. He hugs me back, as best he can, for he too can only use one arm properly.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"A lot better, though still assaulted by waves of extreme tiredness. And my sword arm, well, as you see, it is still out of commission," he says. We sit down by the fountain in the middle of the gardens, on a stone bench. Merry's feet do not touch the ground, and he swings them idly as he talks. "So, you have met the new Steward. What do you think of him? Pippin seemed to think very highly of him. I think he would have followed him into the wastes of Mordor and back. In fact, Pippin saved his life, I gather."

"Saved his life? You must tell me the tale. As for what I think, I suppose it is neither here nor there. He seems a kindly man, but noble and grave and beyond my sphere. I am but a rough shieldmaiden of the north; my company must seem strange and crude to him, I think."

"Speak not thus of yourself, my Lady. You are the bravest, most noble person I know," says Merry. He watches as I blush, and, seeing me open my mouth to protest, continues with a chuckle, "But I suppose, lest I make your head swell with compliments, perhaps I had best answer your questions. It is indeed a sad tale. As far as I can piece together, Lord Faramir's father, the Lord Denethor, always favoured his elder brother, Boromir, and was utterly cast down by news of Boromir's death. Nothing Faramir could do was ever good enough by comparison. When Faramir came back and reported his meeting with Frodo, Denethor was incensed that he had not brought the ring back to Minas Tirith as a trophy of war. He sent Faramir on what was effectively a suicide mission. Somehow, against all odds, Faramir held the river at Osgiliath for just long enough to buy much needed time before the start of the battle. His efforts meant that the Rohirrim were able to come to Gondor's aid before Minas Tirth fell. It was a close call, though: the enemy had already broken through the main gate when we arrived. Faramir also protected his troops to the best of his ability on the retreat. It is not for nothing his men follow him into battle even when it seems a lost cause. Eventually, as they galloped across the plains, he was hit by a dart fired from the air by one of the Nazgûl, and was brought into the city near death.

"Denethor seems to have lost his grip on sanity at this point. Unknown even to Gandalf, he had a Palantir, one of the seeing stones of ancient Numenor. The Dark Lord was able to send him visions of the death of those he held dear and the destruction of the entire world, and Denethor thought they were truly what the future held. He fell into despair and went completely mad. He had his soldiers carry Faramir, unconscious and fevered, to the catacombs, where he had a funeral pyre built for both of them, although they yet lived. It was only through the intervention of Pippin and a soldier loyal to Faramir that Gandalf was able to save him. He came too late to help Denethor, though. He burnt to death upon the pyre, clutching the Palantir in his hands."

I feel bile rising in my throat. The thought of the old Steward burning himself to death in his madness makes me shiver with fear, not least because it so nearly parallels my own experience. I thank the Valar that Gandalf was able to return Théoden to his rightful mind. This could so easily have been Théoden's fate. And the thought that Faramir so nearly died too makes my stomach churn. I realise why Faramir was reluctant to talk of it earlier, and I am suddenly hit with a wave of guilt that I have become privy to something so private, so horrific. Somehow, simply bt listening to Merry's tale, I feel I have intruded.

"Merry..." I begin, my voice cracking, then can continue no longer. I take his hand in mine, and we sit there in silence for a long while.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I sleep fitfully again. For once, my dreams have not involved either groping hands or the horrors of battle. But they have not been any the more pleasant. Instead, I have dreamed of flames licking round the body of the young Steward, as he tosses in his fever. In my dreams, it is his dying screams I have heard. I wake, soaked in sweat and sick to the pit of my stomach.

The maid brings me the usual meagre breakfast, and helps me to dress. I make my way to the same woman who talked to me a couple of days earlier.

"Madam, I have a boon to ask of you," I say. "I cannot lie idle. Enforced rest is giving me too much time to fret, and lack of a useful occupation means that I go to bed insufficiently tired to sleep. Please give me something to do. I may not be a healer, but there must be some chores that can be done one-handed."

The woman smiles at me, and says, "Many of your countrymen lie wounded, some recovering from amputations. It would help them to have someone who could talk to them in their own language, fetch them water, bathe their foreheads." She pauses, as if assessing what sort of woman I am. "And, if it does not offend your dignity, bring them bedpans."

I smile back at her. "It does not offend my dignity. I am a shieldmaiden, not a shrinking violet." The healer introduces me to a young woman of about the same age as me, Lady Lothíriel, who is similarly employed in bearing water and bedpans. She is able to show me where the tools of our new menial trade are kept, and I set to work. It comforts me to speak my own language, and makes me ashamed of my self pity, when I see the wounds and hurts of so many of my brave countrymen.

Thus, I spend the morning gainfully employed, before sharing Merry's company as we both eat a bowl of unappetising stew for lunch. Having eaten, I make enquiries as to the location of the stables.

**Author's note. The quotations from ****_The_****_Art of War_**** are taken from the real work of the same name, by Sun Tzu. I've followed Lialathuveril's lead in attributing it to Ecthelion, one of the early Stewards of Gondor. I had already intended to use ****_The Art of War_**** in one of the initial conversations in this story when I discovered she had used a similar idea in "Black Eyes" (her use of it is much wittier than mine, however – you can find her story in my list of favourites). The quotation about precious stones being like pebbles is taken from Appendix A of the Lord of the Rings.**

**Thank you for the reviews. To the guest reviewer (since I can't PM you), PTSD was exactly the effect I was aiming for, so I am very heartened by your review to find that I've managed to convey this.**

**I'm sorry for the long delay between chapters. It turns out that this story is more complicated to write than I'd thought, and I needed to rough out quite a lot of the later material to make sure all the pieces fitted together. I originally intended this as a 'gap filler', but my original conception may change and head somewhat out of canon. I hope this doesn't offend any of my readers.**


	4. Soldiers' Ballads

**Chapter 4 Soldiers' Ballads**

**Usual disclaimers apply: I don't own the Lord of the Rings, nor do I seek to profit from writing fanfic.**

I run the brush in smooth, even strokes over Windfola's coat. The motions are soothing, hypnotic almost. I breathe in the warm scent of horse and leather and hay. I feel calmer than I have felt since I recovered consciousness several days ago. Windfola snickers softly and turns his head to nuzzle me. He is hoping for a treat, but the city's food stocks are run down after the siege, and there are not enough apples and carrots for people, much less for horses. I know it is something that the Lord Faramir has been fretting about; Merry mentioned this fact. Apparently he has had to devote many hours to organising distribution of what supplies there are, ensuring that everyone gets a fair share, and avoiding civil unrest (no easy task with every man of arms having marched on the Black Gate).

"Should you be doing that with your arm in a sling?" I turn to see the Steward. Béma, think of the _banan_ and he shall appear! He leans casually against the door jamb, brows drawn together in a slight frown.

"I'm fine," I say, perhaps a little more sharply than I should. "Grooming Windfola only takes one hand, and it takes my mind off things."

The frown disappears. "I'm sorry, you know better than I what you are capable of."

I manage a slight smile, then turn back towards Windfola. My skirts catch on the bucket. Curse having to wear a dress in a stable! Some of the contents splash over my feet which are shod only in light shoes instead of the boots I normally wear and I feel the mucky water seep through them.

"_Fuck!_" I mutter in Rohirric. Lord Faramir's eyebrows shoot upwards, and I see his lips twitch in an effort not to smile. I feel heat rise in my cheeks, and rush to make amends.

"I am most sorry, my Lord. I did not realise you spoke my language."

"I don't, my Lady," he says, no longer bothering to suppress the smile, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "But I collect that the Common Tongue borrows some of its more vigorous swearwords from your language."

Still feeling embarrassed, I add, "Please do not think that most of the women of my country would speak thus. I have perhaps forgotten my manners on the ride to the Pelennor Fields." I blush once again at the thought of the diplomatic falsehood I have just uttered. I can think of many women of my country who would speak exactly thus. Fortunately, Lord Faramir decides to take my attempts at diplomacy at face value.

"Men of arms are typically forthright in their mode of expression," says the Steward, trying (and failing, I might add) to adopt a more dignified mien. "My Ithilien Rangers can be foul mouthed in the extreme when they think I am not within earshot. And the ditties they compose about their officers..." He smiles once more. A nice smile, I think to myself.

"Oh, the songs!" I say, "How could I forget? I learned things I could happily have lived a lifetime without thinking about. Béma's balls, the songs..."

What have I said? Horrified, I clap my hand over my mouth. I can feel my face burning.

Then, looking me straight in the eye, the Steward starts to laugh. Suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of our encounter, I join in, and before long, we are both clutching at the supports of the stable, helpless, with tears running down our cheeks. Eventually I manage to speak, between great, gulping gasps of air.

"My Lord, I fear I must needs study etiquette before I can take my place among the ladies of the court here in Gondor."

This sets us both off again, and it is several more moments before the Steward manages to speak.

"Please, call me 'Faramir'", he says, giving me a broad grin. "I think we have progressed beyond the stage in this conversation where we need use titles. Unless you would feel more comfortable being addressed as 'My Lady'?"

"'Éowyn' will be fine," I say with a laugh. "After all, I hardly think anyone could mistake me for a lady after my choice of words just now."

"Nay, Éowyn," he says with an answering laugh, "When I judge a man's character, I consider his honour, valour and honesty. And I have no doubts as to you possessing all those virtues, so I shall continue to think of you as 'my Lady', but will, if you are content, call you 'Éowyn' for friendship's sake."

I smile at this, then feel unaccountably embarrassed, so turn my attention back to brushing Windfola.

"When you have finished grooming your horse, would you care to join me for another walk in the garden?," Faramir asks.

"Yes, though first I must wash my hands... and find some dry hose."

Faramir laughs again. "Perhaps an hour from now," he says.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I find Faramir standing by the fountain. At first the conversation seems more forced than the easy laughter in the stables, but gradually we both find ourselves more at ease.

"In Rohan, is it very unusual for a woman to ride to war?" Faramir asks me.

"Unusual, but not unprecedented. In my country, some women choose to become shieldmaidens, and train in the arts of war. Not many, though most know how to wield a sword to some extent, especially in the Westfold, where we have been subject to constant attacks from marauding bands of orcs. And I can think of at least one woman, the wife of one of my brother's marshalls, who wields a mean frying pan." I grin.

"She sounds terrifying," Faramir replies, a smile on his lips.

"She is. And her tongue is even more deadly than her skillet. I lied earlier, by the way. Women in my country are often, how can I say, rather outspoken." At this, Faramir's smile becomes a ready laugh. But I find my thoughts becoming more serious.

"Éomer was furious with me, once he'd recovered from the fright and shock of seeing me lying dead, as he thought. He thought I was safely back in the Riddermark, though 'safely' is only a matter of degree in the current circumstances. I suppose he would have felt differently had I been his brother."

"Maybe, maybe not. I pleaded with my father to let me ride to Rivendell instead of Boromir, and I still feel guilt that he was on the quest in my place when he met his death, and anger towards my father."

"But had he been your sister?"

"Then certainly, my father would not have countenanced a daughter learning to wield a sword, or indeed any sort of martial art, much less riding out to war or errantry. But we fight an enemy who does not distinguish between men, women or children when it comes to deciding who should die upon the points of their swords. Maybe the men of our realms have been wrong therefore in deciding who should learn to defend themselves."

It strikes me that he is being slightly evasive. I press the point, quite why I do not know. "But I did not ask what your father would have thought had he had a daughter, I asked what you would have thought had it been your sister."

Faramir smiles. "An expert swordsman. I should have known you would know exactly when to press your point. Yes, I concede, had I had a sister, I would probably have reacted as Éomer did. But it would have been out of emotion, out of love and fear. Knowing what you did, the rational part of me admits that you fought valiantly and well."

"You don't think I was unmaidenly, then?"

"Why should what I think be of any import? You have proved yourself brave beyond measure, and turned the fate of the battle single-handed. I think you have placed yourself rather beyond the judgement of formal court conventions."

I feel I have won the point, but I am not sure what tactical gain if any has been made in doing so. Perhaps all I have done is to establish myself as mulish in the face of Faramir's reasonableness. Then I realise I have been questioning him about my actions, while ignoring what he said of his brother. From what he said, perhaps the only person he judges too harshly is himself, and unjustly so.

"You should not feel guilt about your brother's fate. It makes no sense, for these things are oft the arbitrary motions of the fates and luck."

"Maybe 'guilt' is the wrong word. But my brother, like my father before him, was brought up to rule, and saw the world in terms primarily of possessing the power to ensure Gondor's safety. He would have desired any weapon he thought could help this aim, regardless of the cost. I, with lesser ambitions, might have been better placed to resist its lure, not through any great virtue on my part, but simply because I had not been brought up to think myself strong enough to control such a weapon were I to take it for my own."

"Yet Merry told me your brother died honourably and bravely at the last, protecting the two hobbits."

"Do not mistake me, my brother was an honourable man, simply not perfect, for none of us is. But I also loved him dearly. He was my childhood companion, my friend..." He pauses for a moment. "My mother died when I was young, and my father was … not always easy. My brother, who was ten years older, looked after me, was my champion, often stood between me and my father's anger. He was a good man, but warmth and affection did not come naturally to him."

"I was luckier than you, then. For though my parents also died when I was a child, my Uncle Théoden was ever kind and loving, as a father to me. And Éomer, I idolised him when I was a child. He could run faster, climb higher, swim like a fish. I wanted to do everything he did, and he was so patient in helping me to try to copy him. He taught me to wield a sword, spent hours helping me to school my first horse."

We talk long into the afternoon, mostly of our childhoods and our older brothers, both of whom looked after us and taught us much. And I talk of Théodred, who I thought of as an additional brother, and of his death. But there are gaps in our conversation. I do not speak of the Worm, or the hold he had over Théoden, and Faramir does not tell me anything of the events Merry reported to me yesterday. He paints Denethor as stern and distant, but says nothing of his descent into madness, nor of the manner of his death.

Eventually, Faramir takes his leave. I watch as he walks away down the path. He moves a little more easily than yesterday. He and I are both starting to recover, in body at any rate. I am not sure how he fares in mind; I still suffer from nightmares. Worse, though, it seems to me, are the unwanted memories during daylight hours, visions which blot out the scene in front of me, and seem more vivid than the solid world which should be my reality.

At the end of the path, Faramir is hailed by a tall woman. I recognise the Lady Lothíriel, and to my surprise, he greets her with a familiar kiss upon her cheek. I realise how little I know of the people I find myself keeping company with in this realm. In Edoras, I would know who everyone was, their familial relationships, their friendships, their betrothals... I suppose that to show that degree of familiarity in this city of reserved, restrained people, Lady Lothíriel must surely be Faramir's betrothed, or perhaps even his wife.

I settle on the bench in the sun, and wonder how Éomer fares. How close to the Black Gates are the army now? My gut clenches at the thought of their inexorable march towards doom and destruction. Tears start to prick at my eyes, then roll down my cheeks. I cry, messily, gulping sobs, wiping snot away with my sleeve, behaving like a small child. I feel like a small child too, tossed around by emotions too strong to bring under any kind of rational control. Eventually, as these outbursts tend to, my tears run their course, and I sit, with dry, sore eyes, staring into the east.

It occurs to me that my thoughts have been tied up entirely with my brother, and the Rohirrim who ride with him: Elfhelm, Eothain, Gamling. Strangely, for all my obsession of a week ago, I have barely given a thought to Aragorn. I feel strangely, stupidly guilty. Partly because his was the hand that drew me back from death, so surely he deserves more of my thoughts and goodwill. But mostly out of a sense of embarrassment. Am I so flighty, so fickle, that one week I can dream of tangled sheets and ecstasy, and the next forget to cry for him? I shake my head. Where has this fit of the megrims come from? What does it matter what I waste my time fretting over? I get to my feet, resolving to find some sort of useful employment to stop myself from flights of overindulgent melancholy.

**Author's note: ****_bana, banan:_**** Old English for devil.**

**The skillet-wielding wife is a nod to one of Zees Muses's characters. I can really recommend her stories, if you haven't already discovered her. She is in my list of favourite authors.**

**Thank you very much for the reviews, and to those of you who have added this to your list of follows/favourites.**

**Heads up: After much thought (and rough drafts) I have decided that I was right to rate this fic at M (technically, according to the rules of this site, it's already there on the basis of a bare nipple in chapter 1 and the f-word in this chapter – the rules are actually pretty strict). But there will be sex scenes later on. So you've been warned: don't read if that's not your thing, or you're too young.**


	5. Nocturne

**Chapter 5 Nocturne**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Lord of the Rings (surprise), and I'm not profiting from this.**

I wake with a cry, then sit up. Drawing my knees up against my chest and wrapping my arms about them, I curl into a ball. I try to blot out the memory of the dream. Foetid breath, sweaty hands, grasping, groping, probing. Even here I cannot escape from the Worm. There is a slight glow from the embers of the fire, and I take the stump of candle beside the bed, rise and make my way to the hearth. Crouching, I hold it out into the hottest place in the grate, where the wick catches. Now that I can see better, I look for the cup of water on the table, only to find it empty.

I will not sleep again tonight, I know this from experience. So I wrap the deep blue cloak around me and let myself out of the door. The last few days have left me familiar with the layout of the building, and I follow the passages to the kitchen, where I know there will be water, warmth, and possibly even company. I am not sure exactly what the hour is, but I know that the cooks and scullery maids start their work well before dawn.

Quietly, I lift the latch, open the heavy oak door, and enter. It must be earlier than I had thought, for to my surprise, there is only one person in the kitchen. Faramir sits on a bench to one side of the fire. A candle set upon the mantelpiece lights his face, throwing his aquiline nose and the line of his jaw into sharp relief.

"Can you not sleep either, my Lady?" he asks, his voice quiet. He looks at me, a gentle smile on his face.

"I slept at first, but then..." My words trail away as I struggle to suppress the memory of the dream that woke me.

"Night terrors?" he says, more of a statement than a question. "Come sit and bear me company, should it please you to do so," he adds, gesturing to the bench opposite. I sit down, still absent-mindedly holding the empty cup I have brought from my room. Faramir wordlessly holds out a wineskin, and I take it and fill the cup, nodding my thanks to him as I return it. We sit in silence for a long while. The wine is rough, but warms me, and gradually I start to relax. Opposite me, Faramir leans back against the wooden panels behind him, and stretches out his long legs, crossing his ankles. He wears plain, dark brown leggings, and a linen shirt, pleats falling loosely from the shoulders, cuffs open to reveal his wrists. I catch a glimpse of the strong sinews of his forearms, hewn through years of wielding a sword. His fingers hold his own wine cup in a light grasp, and he turns it slowly, staring absently at its contents. Eventually, he breaks the silence.

"Would it help to lay the ghosts to rest if you were to tell me of your dream?" he asks.

My first instinct is to prevaricate. I am ashamed to have such dreams, even though they spring into my mind unbidden, and leave me so troubled. But there is some need in me, a need to throw open the windows of my soul and let a fresh wind or a shaft of sunlight into the darkest corners of my mind, even if it means revealing my shame.

"I dreamt of the Worm," I say. My voice sounds hesitant, and in my ears seems to come from far away, as if it is not part of me.

"Saruman's spy?"

"Yes," I reply. "I dreamt about the way he used to corner me in quiet places in the Golden Hall. He would try to..." For a moment I cannot voice out loud what used to happen. Then all of a sudden, as if a flood gate has burst, it all comes tumbling out, in a confused, confusing mass of words. "His hands were everywhere, his breath, oh gods of my fathers, his breath. It stank. And he smelled too. And he wouldn't let go. And he was going to, going to... He wanted to force me. He liked the fact that I was afraid. It excited him. I tried to push him off, but I couldn't." Out the words come, and I feel as though I am being sick. I cannot bring myself to look at the man opposite. Eventually, the torrent stops, and I sit, eyes shut to hold back the pricking of tears, breathing hard. My stomach has that ache that follows a bout of retching, even though it is only words that I have vomited, words that seem to have taken on corporeal form and now hang in the space between us.

I hear movement, then sense my hands being taken in his. I open my eyes to find him kneeling on the floor at my feet, arms outstretched. He looks at me out of those dark grey eyes, his gaze steady, and his thumbs gently stroke the backs of my hands. He says nothing, just waits to see what I will say next.

"Very little happened in my waking hours," I say. I drop my gaze. I can't look him in the face. Even though the Worm never managed to use anything more than his hands on my body, I still burn with shame. I feel an unaccountable need to tell Faramir that I escaped from the worst of it. I blurt out, "He never succeeded in forcing himself on me. Not in the way he wanted. Sometimes his hands..." I pause, feeling sick. "His hands... on my body...I did not want them there. But no more than that. But in my dreams... Oh, I should not have such dreams. I should not have such things in my mind. You must think that I..."

"It is not your fault, Éowyn. None of us holds responsibility for the fevered imaginings of our slumbering minds," he says. "And it would not be your fault, not even had such things been forced upon you in your waking moments." He continues to stroke my hands for a moment, then rises to sit on the bench beside me, leaving a gap of a few hand spans between us. I feel comforted that he is close by, but the gap is such that I am not threatened by his presence. A bit of me wonders whether he has sensed this in choosing to sit thus.

"It would not have been my fault, I grant you. But I would still have been soiled, would still..." again I pause. "I would no longer have been a maiden." I blush furiously. Why, by all that is sacred, did I say that to him?

"The hurts and scars of war are many and varied. Why should a woman who has suffered thus be thought any less of than a man who carries the wounds of battle?" Faramir asks. I take a sidelong glance at his face, and to my surprise see from his expression that he is sincere when he phrases the issue thus. I realise I am used to men thinking of a high-born woman's virtue as a piece of treasure, beautiful, but brittle, to be guarded, protected, passed from the ownership of her family to her husband, with immense care lest it should be dropped and broken on the way from one safe resting place to another. But Faramir, I sense, sees the matter in a different, less possessive light. He seems to see it simply as an issue of the hurt done to the woman herself, and the need to heal that hurt. Perhaps it is this that makes me feel safe enough to continue.

"I was so afraid, afraid of him taking me. I couldn't bear the thought of that being... my first time. I know it was wrong, but when I thought it inevitable the Worm would get his way, I... I begged my cousin to lie with me. Somehow it seemed to me better to lose my maidenhood in a manner of my choosing, if it had to be so, if I could not wait to join with a man as his lawful wife."

Faramir nods slowly, not looking at me. "I can understand that," he says.

"But Théodred refused," I say. "He said that it would be wrong to lie with each other without passion or desire, simply out of fear and desperation."

"And that too makes sense to me," says Faramir. "To lie with someone simply as the lesser of two evils. No, I would not want a part of that. It should be a joyful thing, not an act of desperation. But I suppose at the time you must have felt there was no escape." Now he turns to look at me, his grey eyes gentle.

"A week later, Théodred was dead. Killed by orcs. Orcs almost certainly primed to ambush him by the Worm," I say, my voice breaking. I look down at the floor. "It makes no sense, but I felt so guilty. Almost as if in asking him to do something he thought was dishonourable, I had somehow contributed to his death."

"Éowyn, look at me." Faramir's voice is quiet but commanding. I look back at him, and his gaze meets mine. "It does make no sense. You played no part in his death. But I do understand the guilt that goes with such things. I played no part in my father's death. In fact I was not even conscious. But I still feel guilt. All we can do, you and I, is to keep telling ourselves that it makes no sense to feel this way."

I nod. If only I could actually feel that way. But I suspect Faramir may find it easier to give such advice than to act on it himself. Not that this matters. On some level I know he is right. And the fact that he probably cannot control his feelings either serves only to make me feel I have someone who understands, at least in part. Faramir offers me the wineskin once more, and I pour some into my cup, only half a cup this time. We sit in silence for several minutes. Eventually I ask something, and it is not till the words are out of my mouth that I wonder why I have asked, or indeed, why the question has crossed my mind at all.

"Lady Lothíriel. Is she your betrothed?" Feeling that the question sounds rude, I add, "She seems both beautiful and kind."

"She is both beautiful and kind," says Faramir, adding with just a hint of a smile "She is also my cousin. And it is hard to entertain romantic feelings towards someone one has known since childhood, especially where one knows of her youthful predilection for dropping plum stones out of upstairs windows onto the heads of passers-by. Besides which, if the teasing I have heard her subject to from the other women who help here is any indication, it seems she has grown rather close to someone you know."

I realise he is teasing me for my inquisitiveness, but I cannot stop myself asking. "Who?"

"Your brother, I believe. I should not be surprised if he asks my Uncle for permission to court her." My jaw drops at this piece of information. My brother, who enthusiastically beds any willing young woman he encounters (and whom, if rumour is true, is equally enthusiastically bedded by the women concerned), considering marriage? I see that Faramir has noted my dumbfounded expression. It seems to encourage him to tease me still further. "And you? Merry may have mentioned that you perhaps favoured someone." But suddenly he turns away, staring straight ahead, avoiding my gaze, and I hear the teasing note disappear from his voice, to be replaced by something I am not sure I can place. "You are beautiful, brave, virtuous, honourable, kind, the sister of the king of our nearest neighbour. You would surely be a good queen."

"If you are talking about the Lord Aragorn, he is already affianced to someone else." I don't control my voice well. Does it sound whining, or petulant, or self-pitying, or simply sharp? I am not sure, but it is not how I meant to address him, not so harshly. After all, I started this line of conversation.

"I am sorry, my Lady. It was impertinent of me to ask," says Faramir. I cannot fail to notice the formal address.

"The fault is mine. I should not have asked you about such private matters in the first place." The silence returns, this time stretching out uncomfortably, a far cry from our earlier camaraderie. Eventually I speak.

"Merry was right. I did fancy myself in love with Aragorn. For he and his companions appeared out of nowhere, and returned my uncle to his right mind, and cast the Worm from Edoras. I suppose he was ready to be cast into a role of my rescuer and champion."

"Surely he was more than just someone to fill a convenient role?" Faramir asks.

"Yes. No. I don't quite know. He is handsome, brave, noble, funny."

"Funny? That seems a strange thing to add after your list of his other virtues."

"He made me laugh with his wit, and it was so long since I had laughed," I explain.

Faramir gives me a sidelong glance, then stares contemplatively at his cup of wine. "You have a beautiful laugh." I see just the hint of a smile, but he does not look at me. "Though sadly I cannot claim to have caused it through any great display of wit."

"No, if I remember aright, it was my own coarse language that set us both to laughing." The silence returns, but closer to its former friendliness. This makes me hesitate before asking my next question. But the nagging curiosity will not go away. Eventually I say, "You must be ten years or more my senior. It surprises me that you are not married. Has there been no lady you have found worthy of courting?"

Faramir smiles. "I suppose in my twenties I indulged in the usual youthful indiscretions of most young men. But I was never particularly content with such encounters." He pauses, then sighs. "I did once love a woman dearly, but my father would not countenance the match. She was the widow of one of my Rangers, with three children. When her husband fell, the youngest was but a babe-in-arms. At first I visited to offer condolences, and to bring the pension for her and her children that our regimental coffers allowed for. Gradually, over the course of a year or more, I came to realise I was visiting for her sake, for she was kind, gentle, beautiful. She was also strong, holding her household together and caring for her children though her own grief was still sharp. I could not woo her at first, because she grieved deeply for my fallen comrade, a good, brave man. But gradually over the years our friendship turned to love on both our parts. Eventually I went to my father and asked for his permission to marry, but he had his heart set on a political marriage, the more so since my brother Boromir seemed to show no inclination to marry. He refused."

"What happened?" I ask.

He colours slightly, and looks again at his wine cup. Was there ever such a fascinating cup in the history of the wood-turner's art? "We loved one another very dearly. One thing led to another. In the end, though my father forbade permission for us to wed lawfully, we lived as husband and wife, in all but name, and I came to feel as though I were father to her children. We tried to be careful to avoid scandal, both in terms of not flaunting our living arrangements, and in other... more private matters. But I fear I was not careful enough. While in Minas Tirith, taking council from my father on how best to pursue our campaign against the Southrons, I received a letter from her. She was with child.

"I had a huge row with my father, and left, swearing that I would be wed without his permission. But when I returned to Ithilien, I found that I was too late. She had been taken by a winter sickness, along with our unborn child, and the oldest of her children." Faramir meets my gaze at last, and his face is distraught.

"How long ago?" I ask.

"It is just over four years since Linneth died. I still support her surviving children. They live with one of my retired soldiers and his wife, a couple who were unable to have children of their own. I visit them as often as this damned war allows. They are nine and twelve now, a girl and a boy." He takes another sip of his wine, and pauses for what seems like a long time. "I fear you must think me a man of no honour for behaving thus towards Linneth," he says, his face devoid of expression.

"Nay, for I know not what I would have done in similar circumstances. And your father was not an easy man. Besides, I think perhaps we women of the Riddermark are not as sheltered from the realities of life as women in Gondor. Such arrangements are not so uncommon. Perhaps not when a woman is widowed, for I cannot imagine the sort of political pressures that drove your father to deny consent for your marriage holding much sway in our less complicated realm. But sometimes, marriages do not work, and couples go their separate ways. If then they meet new lovers, it is not unusual for them to set up a household which is a marriage in all but name. In truth, no-one thinks much of it, so long as the children and old folk of the household are well cared for."

Faramir looks at me. "Such pragmatism seems much more humane than the moral code of Gondor. But still I feel that Linneth deserved better than I was able to offer her."

"If she had known what the fates had in store for her, what do you think she would have chosen? A few years of lonely widowhood before her death, or the comfort of a man who loved her and the knowledge that he would care for her children as best he could after she was gone? 'No-one could cast aspersions on her virtue' is but a poor epitaph. I know which course I would have chosen."

"Lady, I give you thanks for your compassion," Faramir says, very quietly. "I am still not sure I deserve it."

Suddenly I feel the urge to shake him out of his fit of melancholy. It is not right that he should torture himself thus. I burst out, "Thus says the man who but half an hour ago lectured me on the futility of feeling guilt about things which it was beyond our power to change." I fix him with a stare, and he looks first sheepish, then gives a very small smile. I feel as though I have won some sort of small victory, though I am not sure what sort of battlefield we have fought on, or what the stakes are.

"Very well, Éowyn, I will indulge in self-pity no longer."

"Please do not mistake me. I do not mean to suggest for a moment that you should not grieve for Linneth. She sounds a lovely woman, and it is right to mourn her memory. All I ask is that you think on your time together with joy, not guilt," I reply, worried that I have gone too far.

But Faramir only smiles at me and raises his cup. "Let us drink, then, to the memory of those loved ones we have lost, and the joy they brought to us."

I raise my cup and drink.

"And now, my Lord, I feel that perhaps I should return to my chamber and see if I can manage a few hours sleep before the morning."

"Sleep well, my Lady of Rohan," he says.

**Author's note: Faramir is wrong about the plum stones ruling out the possibility of romantic thoughts. As teenagers, this was a favourite pastime of one John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and his friend Edith (albeit using sugar lumps rather than plum stones, which they tried to drop unnoticed onto the hats of passers-by). Reader, she married him.**

**Thank you once again for the reviews. They are much appreciated.**


	6. Sea Shanties and Songs of the Plains

**Chapter 6 Sea shanties and songs of the plains**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything connected with Lord of the Rings, and I am writing this purely for fun, not for profit.**

The hardest thing about my water and bedpan duties is not the physical effort. After all, it is not as if I am in any fit state myself to do any of the heavy work. No, it is finding the words to talk to men who have lost legs and will never be able to ride again, or who have lost arms, and will never be able to wield a sword or guide a ploughshare. Sometimes they want to rage against their fate, sometimes they are silent and have lost hope, a small number seem able to find some sort of peace with their injuries. The ones who rage worry me less than the ones who are without hope; the latter, the other helpers tell me, are the ones who do not struggle against fevers and infections, who slip quietly from their mortal chains in the middle of the night. I am not the most patient of women, and the thing I find hardest is to listen, without question, or comment, or advice, to whatever they have to say. If they rage, it is best to try to let it wash over me like the waves of the sea. If they are in despair, there is little I can say to change this (how well I know this lesson; I have studied it all too closely myself). It is only really the odd two or three who seem accepting of their fate with whom I can converse, discussing their plans to make themselves useful despite their injuries; they will be able to sow seeds, or thresh the ears of barley one-handed, they tell me, or weave the wool of the Westfold into fine cloth while seated, one legged, at a loom. But even with these men I fear that in fact what I am listening to is simply the postponement of their anger, grief or despair. They chatter with seeming good cheer because their minds hide the enormity of their situation from them.

So it is with relief that I sit here in the garden with the Lady Lothíriel, snatching a few minutes from our labours. We have a waterskin, yet more coarse bread and a hunk of slightly mouldy cheese. The Lady tells me she has sent letters to Dol Amroth, requesting supplies for Minas Tirith, but that it may be a while before they arrive to replenish the stocks left here after the siege. I find myself liking Lothíriel. So far, we have mostly exchanged polite pleasantries, but once or twice I think I have caught a wicked twinkle in her eye, a twinkle which promises the beginnings of a more entertaining friendship. Certainly, she does not fit my prejudiced picture of a spoilt court beauty, although she is undeniably very beautiful indeed. Her next words make me wonder if she has quietly been assessing me in the same way, with a view to deciding how open she can be. If I have been subject to some sort of test, it would appear that I have passed.

"What a morning. Those poor men. Is it wrong of me, I wonder? Even the blackest moments sometimes send my mind spinning towards a kind of dark humour," she says.

"I think black humour is the only response to such circumstances. Well, other than madness, and that would not serve our patients so well," I reply. "What moment did you have in mind?"

"I have a maiden aunt, who is very strong on the level of decorum to be expected from an unwed noblewoman. She could win prizes for discoursing at length on the subject. Well, an hour or so ago, I found myself tending to a young man, one of your Riders, who is in a very bad way. He has lost his left arm just below the shoulder, and the right was shattered into pieces. The healers tell me that had it not been for the fact that they'd already had to amputate one arm, they would have made no effort to save the other, such was the damage to bone and tendons. Even now, it is by no means clear that he will regain any use in it."

I shudder. The thought of such an outcome tears at my heart. Were I in his situation, I would indeed despair and turn my face to the wall.

"I did not know what to do. For once I felt that I would run, weeping from the room, and almost did. But then he uttered one of the words of Rohirric I have come to recognise: he asked for a bedpan. And suddenly I switched from being on the verge of weeping hysteria to an entirely different sort, for it came to me all of a sudden to wonder what my maiden aunt would make of me having to hold a strange soldier's manhood while he pissed into a pot. Of course, it was not really funny, more the sort of thing that has you laughing because laughter and fear and despair can seem so close together at times like these."

"War certainly has strange effects on one's behaviour," I respond. It comes to me that perhaps I can make her laugh. "I swore in front of your cousin yesterday. I didn't mean to, but I tripped over a bucket in the stables, and out it came. Language one of our Riders would have been proud of."

Lothíriel looks at me, then breaks into a smile. "Oh my. What did he make of that? I love my cousin dearly, but he is a quiet, reserved, scholarly man. I am not sure I have ever heard him swear, which is more, I might add, than I can say for my dear brothers."

"Actually, he laughed most heartily. It helped to set us at ease with one another." And I tell her of the horribly stilted conversation we had in the garden about Alcarin's poetry. Lothíriel laughs at this.

"That sounds just like Fara. I swear, books are as real to him as people. Thank heavens you could talk to him about Ecthelion. He would have been at a complete loss, else, for I am not sure he is particularly practised in the art of winning a lady's favour with light hearted chatter. Again, unlike my dear brothers."

"Ah, your brothers are perhaps like mine, who shows an exceptionally keen interest in our sex." Oh no, I should not have said that. If she is keen on Éomer, she will hardly wish to hear of his tendencies to wench his way from East to Westfold. Fortunately, Lothíriel does not seem in the slightest bit fazed.

"Precisely. Well, the younger two at any rate. Elphir is respectably married. But Amrothos and Erchirion have quite an eye for the ladies. Fara, on the other hand, seems really quite shy." She gives me a sidelong look, and I reflect that, perhaps because of her young age, it is simply that Faramir has not thought it appropriate to talk to her about such things. Then it strikes me all of a sudden that it is perhaps odd that he should talk to me. But then, I suppose, in the dark hours of the night, sharing what might be considered the camaraderie of fellow warriors, it is easier to talk of such things than it would be had I been presented to him at a court ball, both of us dressed in the ridiculous finery demanded at such occasions. It also strikes me that perhaps it might prove a little complicated trying to explain the circumstances of my late night conversation to Lothíriel, that, in fact, the situation might be open to misinterpretation. No sooner have I framed this thought than Lothíriel confirms my suspicions.

"Fara seems quite taken with you," she says, with a tone of faux-innocence which does not fool me for a minute.

"No, it is simply friendship," I say, quickly. "He and I were both wounded in the same battle. I think we view each other more as brothers-in-arms than anything else." For a moment I wonder if attack is the best form of defence, and whether I should tease her about my brother, but then I decide it is safest to move the conversation away from romance entirely.

"Tell me about Dol Amroth," I say. "I have never seen the sea."

So Lothíriel tells me about her home, about sweeping golden beaches and towering granite cliffs, water stretching to the horizon, azure under the sun and steely grey beneath the clouds of winter, close cropped green turf set with tiny flowers, seals so fat and placid on the shore and so sleek and graceful in the waters, swooping gulls and diving black cormorants, dolphins frolicking through the wakes of boats out of the sheer joy of being alive. In return I tell her of the galloping horses of my homeland, of sweeping plains, waves not of water but of green grass swaying in the wind, distant white-capped mountains, rushing mountain streams shaded by rowan trees with their bright red berries.

I am hit by a wave of homesickness as I talk of my homeland.

"You miss it," says Lothíriel: it is a statement, not a question.

"Very much. I feel rooted in the earth there, in the horses, the fields of barley, the flocks which graze on the foothills of the mountains. Even in the wooden carvings of our halls, which are to us more than just pretty ornaments. They connect us to the harvest and the souls of our animals, the cycle of the seasons and the protection of the Valar."

"For my part, I cannot imagine what it would be to live far from the sea," Lothíriel replies. Then her expression turns sad. "But I suppose at some stage that may well be my fate. My father is a reasonable man; he will not arrange my marriage without consulting me. But at some point I suppose it will be my lot to enter into a political union, and who knows where that may take me."

I look across at Lothíriel, shocked at what she has just said. "Surely that does not happen any longer. I can see that happening hundreds of years ago, but now?" I am at a loss for words.

"I am probably the most politically well-connected woman of marriageable age in Gondor. Yes, I think that is precisely what will happen. But I have been brought up to that idea, and am adjusted to it. And it is not as bad now as it was a few weeks ago; my uncle might well have sought to overrule my feelings, whatever petitions my father might have made on my behalf. But Fara would not do that to me," she says with a smile. But then her face becomes grave. "But, oh, to be able to marry as one wanted. A year ago, even six months, that would have seemed of no importance. But now..."

"But now?" I ask, thinking back to what Faramir told me.

"Maybe I have had a glimpse of what it might be to marry a man of one's own choosing." She falls silent. I wonder whether to quiz her further, but feel that I do not know her well enough. Even as I think this, it seems foolish not to be able to talk to her of my own brother. But I do not know whether she would welcome the invitation to such confidences. Instead, I let the silence between us stretch out, to see what will come of it. Eventually, she talks again.

"What of you? What are the marriage customs in your land?"

"Very uncomplicated," I say with a smile. "Though most of our population now live in fixed settlements, it is not so long since we were a nomadic people, following our horse herds and flocks of sheep where the grazing took them. We have no great time for ceremony. Traditionally, a man married a woman by wrapping her in his cloak; if their families and friends witnessed them together the next morning, they became husband and wife. It is perhaps a bit more complicated for me, as a close kinswoman of the king. I would be expected to have a formal betrothal in front of the people of Edoras, then a simple wedding ceremony. But my husband would still wrap me in his cloak."

"How marvellous it would be to be free of the weight of ancient ceremony. I dread my marriage night. It is the thought of the expectation of hanging the bloodied sheets out of the window the next morning. I have heard tell of young women who went to their marriage bed pure and untouched, yet for some unknown reason, left no mark on lying with a man for the first time, and were ostracised and cast into dishonour as a result."

It is probably as well that Lothíriel knows no Rohirric (and has not as acute an ear for languages as her cousin), for this moves me to a string of obscenities. Eventually I manage to return to the common tongue. "Béma, and you call us barbarians!"

Lothíriel seems surprised by the force of my outburst. "So, coming to one's marriage bed a maiden is of no importance in your land?" she asks, sounding puzzled.

"Certainly, a woman of high standing would be expected to be a maiden. But, in times of war, a young woman may lie with her sweetheart in good faith, expecting to be married, then lose him to an orc raid. Or worse, she may be despoiled in an enemy raid. Who in all conscience could hold such a thing against her?" As I say this, I realise that I am echoing the words Faramir uttered last night. I comfort myself with the fact that there is at least one high-born Lord of Gondor who is not a barbarian, and smile inwardly. I add, "I hope too that if a young girl made a fool of herself over a boy who did not then marry her, she would not be judged too harshly. I cannot imagine any man worth the having would complain about her past. Though perhaps the rules are looser when there are no rights of property inheritance riding on the issue."

"I think you are right. I cannot but help think of your herds of horses. You and I are fine blood mares, and must only be covered by the right stallions."

My eyes open wide at this. It is by far the most outspoken thing Lothíriel has said, and frighteningly cynical.

"I think my lot is not as bad as yours. I will get to choose my husband. And no bloody sheets will ever fly from my window. That is, if we live through the current darkness. Time enough to turn our thoughts to fripperies should the outcome prove so fortunate." I do not add the thought that it seems to me unlikely. Perhaps I am even more cynical than my companion.

Our conversation is ended by the arrival of Ioreth, one of the healer's assistants, an elderly, bustling, but highly competent woman. She shoos Lothíriel back to work, and equally peremptorily dismisses me to my chamber for an afternoon nap.

"You are far from healed, my Lady. You must rest." Suitably chastened, and feeling like a small child, I do as I am bid. It turns out to be a welcome relief, for I am very tired from repeated nights of disturbed sleep. I lie on my bed, and it is not long before I drift off.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sainted Lady of the Harvest, what tricks and vapours of the mind am I now subjected to? At least this dream has involved no horrors, no bloodied corpses on the battlefield, no groping hands. But it is still strange beyond measure. My conversation with Lothíriel has been woven into the oddest of fancies. I trace through the details, wondering whether there is any lesson to be drawn.

In this dream, I woke from the deepest of slumbers, dreamless and safe, to the crashing of the door being kicked in. Éomer burst through it, followed closely by Éothain and Aragorn. I watched in astonishment as my brother tried to draw his sword. Éothain gripped his right arm and prevented him, Aragorn held his shoulder and restrained him from advancing further into the room. It seemed to take their combined strength to hold him back, such was the strength of his fury.

"Béma, I'll have his balls on a platter," my brother roared.

I shifted in the bed, and realised there was an arm round my waist. A naked arm, round my naked waist. And pressed against my back, a warm solid chest. The realisation hit me – I was with a man, and we were covered with a cloak. Not the dark green cloak of a rider, but a dark grey cloak, bearing the moon and stars of Ithilien. Twisting my head, I came face-to-face with Faramir, who looked equally startled and confused by the situation.

By this time Éothain had Éomer in a tight embrace, holding his arms against his side. Éomer still struggled, and uttered fearsome oaths, calling down the vengeance of the gods on the vile despoiler before him. Aragorn looked over at the bed, his face a picture of quiet amusement. Then he uttered the Rohirric words he must have learned while serving my grandfather.

"_I see you, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, wrapped in Lord Faramir's cloak. I wish you every joy."_

I try to shake the sleep from my head, and rub my eyes. What has got into me? I think of evenings with the women of the Golden hall, sewing and weaving, while the old crones discussed the meanings of dreams. Some held that we dream of our greatest desire, others that we dream of that which we fear. Neither seems to me a likely explanation. I feel more inclined to put the whole thing down to the lingering confusion of mind which accompanies my weakened physical state. At least, that is the only explanation I will countenance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

To clear my head, I go out to the city walls. A chill wind blows from the east, and I pull the blue cloak around me. It is one that Ioreth gave to me when I first ventured out of bed. But the fabric is thin and worn, and the piercing east wind cuts through it. I shiver.

"My Lady, you are cold." I turn, and there is Faramir behind me. He signals to the servant attending to him, and after a short conversation, the latter turns and descends the stairs. Faramir unfastens his own cloak and passes it to me, draping it around my shoulders. He has no idea why this gesture should cause my cheeks to burn, and I cannot meet his eye. There is a long silence.

"I have asked my servant to fetch a warmer cloak for you, so you need not wear mine if it makes you feel uncomfortable. I am sorry, Éowyn, I did not mean to offend you."

"You have not offended me. I am just tired, and your kind gesture overwhelms me." This sounds unconvincing to my ear, and I am not in the least sure Faramir accepts it as an explanation for the stiffness of my manner. The awkwardness is assuaged only slightly by the return of the servant, bearing a bundle of cloth. Faramir shakes it loose. It is a beautiful cloak, the colour of the evening sky, set with gems about the collar and hem in the shape of stars. I am struck dumb. Faramir takes in my expression, seeming to realise that I am trying to frame the words to refuse this gift. He tries to lighten the mood.

"Will you not swap cloaks with me, my Lady? For I fear that this one will not suit me."

"It is too generous a gift. I cannot..."

"Nay, please my Lady... Éowyn. It will lie unused in a chest else. It seems pointless for it to grace a dark wooden box while you shiver in that flimsy garment." He gestures to the thin cloak I have left draped over the wall. I nod reluctantly, and unclasp his cloak, and silently, we swap the cloaks.

Wrapped up against the chill east wind, we stand side-by-side in silence, looking out over the Pelennor fields towards the Ephel Duath and the dark lands beyond. Eventually, I shift uncomfortably, tired by standing for so long. Faramir suggests we go back into the garden and sit for a while.

The sun has started to dip in the west , and we sit once more on the stone bench near the fountain. It turns out both of us have brought books with us, so we sit in companionable silence in what remains of the daylight, reading. He has, yet again, got the better choice: a treatise on statesmanship. I have a book Lothíriel handed to me earlier, one of her favourites. It is a volume of Sindarin poetry (annotated with a translation into Westron, thank heavens, for though my tutor made me tackle Sindarin, I always struggled with it). I snort in disgust at the sentiments expressed in the particular verse I am reading.

"Listen to this bit: 'When you are very old, sitting in the candlelight by the fire, spinning and sewing, say to yourself, in a voice full of wonder, Mardil of Lossarnach sang of me when I was young and beautiful.' Pah, fancy reducing a woman's whole life to her having been pretty enough to engage the passing fancy of some empty-headed fop at some point in her youth."

Faramir gives me a broad grin, then says, "But it's the language. One can forgive Mardil for being an empty-headed fop for the beauty of his language." And, looking at the fountain rather than at me, he starts to recite. Until I met Legolas, I had never met a native speaker of Sindarin. But I quickly realise that Faramir's grasp of the language must be very good indeed, way beyond the limited knowledge I gained years ago. Then I remember that the high-born in Gondor do speak a form of Elvish as their native tongue. The words flow from his lips with a lilting melody to them, like music. I find that these words do indeed have the power to melt hearts. I shut my eyes and let the music of his voice flow over me, saddened when Faramir reaches the end of the poem. I take a sidelong look at him; he is still staring ahead, but I sense that he knows I am watching him.

Again, I am intrigued by his love of learning. I honestly believe that he does not say these things to impress the listener. He says them simply because he is fascinated. Sometimes his intelligence is set to the task of making lightning quick leaps between different subjects, connecting them in ways no one else has seen before. At other times, he seems just to exult in playing with ideas, like the dolphins Lothíriel described to me, playing in the waves, or like horses, running free across the open grasslands of my home. But he never displays his learning like a trophy, seeking admiration. It is simply part of him. I am drawn back from my musings by his voice.

"You're still right about the content," he says. "Lothí always says it makes her want to kick him, or would if he hadn't died centuries ago. But there are some poems where the language and sentiment seem perfectly in tune." He begins to recite again, and at first I cannot place the sounds at all. Sonorous syllables, varying in tone and length, somehow filling the space with a beauty all of their own. I realise it is Quenya, a language even the Elves themselves now think of as ancient. He stops, and I look at him quizzically. This time, he meets my gaze.

"It's a poem about Beren and Luthien, less well known than the Lay of Leithian, but I think I prefer it. The poet imagines the mortal Beren trying to explain to Luthien, the immortal, what love means to a Man, tied to a fleeting existence upon the earth. 'Suns may rise and set: We, having shone with a brief light must sleep one endless night. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred...'" His grey eyes fix on mine, a faint, unreadable smile playing across his lips.

Suddenly I realise that in his quiet, scholarly, bookish way, Faramir is trying to flirt with me. Trying and succeeding, for just as suddenly I realise that I am enjoying this. The thought both startles and amuses me. Who would have thought a barbarian shieldmaiden from the far north could be wooed with ancient poetry whispered to her amid the flowers of a courtly garden? I feel myself smile back at him, and sense a blush rising in my cheeks. Do I encourage him, or do I fall back on our easy comradeship? If we let ourselves take this new path, will it be the end of the friendship that has come to mean so much to me? I am saved from the decision by a familiar voice, cutting through the tension that has sprung up between us.

"Cousin, my father's factor in Dol Amroth has sent the ledgers detailing the provisions and stores we have laid by." Lothíriel interrupts us. "Can you spare some time in your study? We can assess how much can safely be spared from the Princedom and sent to Minas Tirith. We need to feed the people here, but not at the expense of starving those back in my home."

"Of course, Lothíriel." Faramir stands up, then turns to me. "Fare you well, my Lady Éowyn. I shall see you again soon, if you will." And, catching me completely by surprise, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to my skin.

I watch as he and Lothíriel walk down the path, side-by-side. The skin on the back of my hand still seems to tingle, as if he has left the imprint of his lips there. And I can feel his hands on my shoulders as he placed the cloak around me, and hear his voice in my head, murmuring poetry. I sit on the bench, remembering and wondering, until the garden becomes quite dark and the chill night air drives me back inside to my chamber.

**Author's note: The custom of marriage by cloak-wrapping is Zees Muse's wonderful creation, and first appears in her story ****_Rider of the Mark_****.**

**I have stolen the poetry (of course). Here are the originals.**

**Quand vous serez bien vielle, au soir, à la chandelle,**

**Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant, **

**Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant,**

**Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j'étais belle.**

**Ronsard, Sonnets pour Hélène**

**soles occidere et redire possunt;**

**nobis, cum semel occidit breuis lux,**

**nox est perpetua una dormienda.**

**da mi basia mille, deinde centum,**

**dein mille altera, dein secunda centum...**

**Catullus, poem V.**

**Thank you again for your kind reviews. And thank you to Motherpoppins and the guest reviewer, who I can't PM – your comments are much appreciated.**

**Things will go rather non-canon in the next chapter, just so you know what to expect.**


	7. Carmina Burana

**Chapter 7: Carmina Burana**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any IP rights for Lord of the Rings, and I'm writing this purely for my own entertainment, not for profit.**

I have yet another nightmare, once again about Faramir. This time I am fighting my way past a host of Nazgûl, not one, not even nine, but countless numbers. As I hack each one down, another leaps up to take its place. And I get no closer to my destination, the pyre on which Faramir lies, soaked in oil, the charred and twisted ghost of Denethor standing beside him with a flaming torch ready to plunge into the heart of the heap of wood. The ghost looks at me out of empty eye sockets, mocking me as I fight, unable to reach his son.

I wake to find my face wet with tears. Without even thinking about what I am doing, I draw the blue cloak around me and set off along the corridors. I try the kitchen first, but it is dark and empty. I continue wandering until my feet bring me to a door. Almost of its own volition, my hand knocks, and it is only when I hear his voice, filled with sleep, asking who is at the door, that the enormity of what I am doing hits me. I open the door, and holding my candle, start to stumble my way through apologies and explanations about night terrors.

"I am sorry, I should not have disturbed your rest, I needed to make sure that my dreams were not true, I see it was only night terrors again, but it was so real, I shouldn't be here, I will go..." Somewhere in the middle of this ridiculous outburst, it seems that Faramir has caught sight of my tears.

"Éowyn, do not cry. Please." His tone is pleading. "Come in for a moment and dry your tears, at least, before you return to your chamber."

I enter hesitantly, and place my candle upon the mantle piece. The grate beneath is empty, and the room is cold as ice. All I can see of Faramir is his head poking out from beneath blankets. His hair sticks up in an unruly mess, even untidier than its daytime state. I shift awkwardly from one foot to the other, then blurt out the content of my dream. Then I feel guilty at having shifted my burden onto him, especially one so intimately connected with his dead father. He runs his hand through his hair, then rubs his eyes.

"Sit down for a moment," he says. He sounds so tired, and I feel guiltier still. I perch on the edge of the bed. Suddenly I am struck by the memory of the touch of his lips on my hand, and the realisation that I am in his bed chamber, sitting on his bed. It seems foolish not to have thought of it before, but the impropriety of what I have done has only just occurred to me. Then, cloak or no, I am hit by a fit of shivering. I am bone tired, tired of the unrelenting exhaustion of war, the hunger of short rations, the pain, both my own and that of the wounded men I tend to, and above all, tired of the ever-present fear of the Shadow in the East. We stand on the brink of the world's ruin. All at once, it seems to me that what is important and what is not is thrown into stark contrast. Let the hounds of Morgoth take propriety and carry it to damnation. Summoning every last reserve of courage before I run from the room, I speak.

"For Béma's sake, move over and let me into the warmth." And I lift the corner of the covers.

"Wait," Faramir cries, voice cracking with panic. He looks at me wide eyed. Oh Valar, I have just made a complete fool of myself. He will throw me from the room like the brazen hussy I am, and never speak to me again. I want to apologise, to explain, but I am struck dumb. But instead of the stark dismissal I have feared, Faramir holds the blankets to his body with one hand, then reaches out to the chair on the other side of the bed with his other arm. The blanket falls away from his shoulder, and I realise he is naked. Oh Lady of the Stars, he is naked, and I have just tried to get into bed with him! I am frozen to the spot. My conscious mind honestly believed I had asked wanting only comfort and warmth. But I fear my body may know more truths than my mind. I feel a tug of desire hit me, setting my pulse racing. I cannot take my eyes off him: his face, half turned from me, the stubble on his jawline, the muscles in his shoulder, the sinews in his arm. I have not realised until this moment that it is possible simultaneously to be frozen to the bone and aflame with desire.

He grabs a pair of linen braies from the chair, and pulls them under the blankets, wriggling around beneath the covers as he puts them on. He sounds a little calmer when he speaks next.

"You can get in now." He lifts the blankets on my side of the bed, and slipping out of the cloak, I slide into the warmth beside him.

"You are shaking," he says. "Is it cold, or fear or both?"

"Both," I reply. I think it best not to tell him of the third reason why I am trembling like a leaf. He slides his arms around me, being careful not to jostle my damaged arm, and pulls me close. I find myself pressed against the hard planes of his body. He is as warm as a furnace. To my surprise, it is not just his arm he wraps around me. He casts his leg over mine, and we lie, limbs tangled together. My cheek rests against his chest, and I can feel the dusting of hair there, hear the quiet, steady beat of his heart. How can the feeling be comforting and arousing at the same time?. I let my hand nestle there, next to my face, and breathe in the scent of him. He smells of soap, and a masculine scent all of his own. His lips brush my forehead with a very gentle kiss.

"All is well, Éowyn. You are safe here." More light kisses fall on my brow, and his hand gently strokes my hair. I shut my eyes and feel as if I am floating in a soft cocoon of warmth, safe from the world, blessed, cared for. Time stands still. I could spend eternity here in his arms, both of us protected from the world outside, safe in our own little kingdom under the covers. I murmur his name, and let my fingers drift across his chest, matching my touch to his. I turn my head slightly and, breath catching at my boldness, drop a tiny kiss on his skin, the hair on his chest a strange sensation against my lips.

His touch on my hair, on my cheek is so soft. But the grasp that holds me against his body, in contrast, is not gentle; he grips me with a possessive strength. I tilt my head to look up at him. In the flickering candlelight, his eyes are dark. They look into mine with an almost unfathomable expression. Almost, but not wholly so; I see a mixture of desire, and something so gentle that I am afraid to put a name to it. His hand moves from my hair to my cheek, then softly cups my chin. His mouth moves slowly down to meet mine, a sweet, soft kiss to start with. He pulls away slightly, only to look at me once more, and his thumb traces my lower lip, dragging across the sensitive skin. I stare back into his eyes. I feel as if I am lost, completely lost. He murmurs my name, so quietly I can hardly hear him, then he kisses me again, his lips nipping and sucking gently at mine. I find myself moaning quietly, my lips parting to let out the sound, and his tongue darts into my mouth, teasing, tantalising me with its touch.

I can feel desire licking through my body like the flames of a forest fire. I tangle my fingers in his hair, and hold his head as I kiss him back as though my life depends on it. My tongue explores his, and I moan again as he holds me to him. Oh, Béma, I can feel his cock, hard and urgent, pressing against me. My mind, with its ever traitorous need to find humour at the most inappropriate of times, murmurs _So much for Lothíriel's assessment of her scholarly, reserved cousin._ Then my body decides to over-rule my mind, and I shift my hips, rubbing my groin against his hard length. His hand slides down my back, grasping my arse and pulling me still more firmly against him. I find myself smiling even as I kiss him; it's not as if I need any encouragement. I try to part my legs, feeling suddenly as though there is an aching void between them. I need him, need him there.

But my efforts are thwarted by my shift, which seems to have got tangled. I wriggle awkwardly, and he takes the opportunity to roll part way on top of me. I revel in the sensation of his weight pressing into me, and take my turn to run my hand over his buttocks, feeling the muscles tense through the thin fabric. I can feel his hand tugging at the fabric of my shift, pulling it up. Our lips have parted. He kisses my jawline. I lick at his neck, then find myself nibbling at the skin there, with gentle brushes of my teeth. He gives a deep groan. Finally, my legs are free. I hook one behind his thigh and gasp as his cock nudges my entrance. Only the layers of fabric prevent him from burying himself within me. And I want him to, want him so badly it hurts. I feel hot blood coursing and pulsing through my groin, feel the welcoming moisture pooling there, ready for him. I undo the ties on his braies and start to slide them over his hips, thwarted as they snag on his erection. Then, as he tries to shift his body to allow me to free his cock, suddenly I jolt my bad arm. I give a scream of pain.

Instantly, Faramir rolls to the side, and looks at me, face filled with concern.

"Your arm. Éowyn," he murmurs. Then a look of complete shock spreads across his face. "Oh sainted Valar, Éowyn, what was I thinking? To seek to take advantage of you in this way." He sits up, and buries his face in his hands.

Oh heavens and stars, this is not what I intended. How did we get so carried away? And now here is Faramir, taking the blame upon himself for my wantonness. I sit up, cradling my injured arm, and settle into a kneeling position. Hesitantly, I reach out and brush a lock of hair from his cheek, so that I can see his face.

"Faramir, it is my fault. I should not have... I was the one who chose to get into your bed, after all. You did not invite me. I am sorry..." I cannot find the words.

"No, you came to me, frightened and cold and in need of comfort. I took advantage of your innocence. I seduced you, like some sort of ..." Clearly I am not the only one finding difficulty with words.

"Tried, only." I almost smile at the thought of Faramir the great seducer of innocent maidens. The picture is so far from the truth as to be laughable. But he looks so woebegone there is no real humour to be found in the situation I have brought crashing into our lives.

"You might as well say I was as much the seducer as you," I murmur. "Say rather that both of us were carried away by something we did not expect, or did not expect to be so strong. And, in truth, I think I knew from the start that I was looking for more than warmth and comfort. I am sorry, so sorry. But do not think that because I am inexperienced, I am without desire." Then somehow, I feel moved to add, "Or without knowledge of how improper my behaviour is."

"No, not without desire. But you have been through so much. You have been hurt so much. Is it any wonder that you cling to the first crumbs of comfort anyone offers you? I knew this, I should have known to treat you as if you were a dear sister, and instead..." Again his voice trails off. His next words are so quiet that I hardly hear them. "Though in truth, I have never thought of you as a sister. Always, from the moment I saw you, I have thought you the most beautiful woman I have ever met. And now, I have acted like some kind of base monster and tried to injure that beauty."

At this point, quite unexpectedly, I get cross. The Rohirrim in me has far too much knowledge of the relations between men and women, even if only at second hand, to let this outburst of self-pity go unchallenged.

"Pshaw. You put me on a pedestal, as if I were some sort of marble statue, or ethereal figment of the imagination of some moralising prude's book of 'appropriate etiquette for Gondorian maidens.' I am but a woman, a woman made of flesh and blood, a woman of the Riddermark to boot, brought up watching the breeding of horses. I feel desire, I can be moved by such things. And if there is no shame in the taking of honest pleasure when a man acts on his desire, why should there be when a woman does the same? By all means be relieved we stopped when we did, if you honestly believe you would have regretted lying with me. But do not engage in this... this maudlin fit."

Finally he looks at me, wide-eyed at my tirade. His face is the oddest mixture of emotions I have ever seen. Shock, perhaps a trace of admiration, a bit of anger at the dressing-down he has just been subjected to, and still that undercurrent of desire. And a grave sadness in his eyes. I realise I have hurt him, and my anger evaporates. It takes me a moment to realise what I have said.

"I did not mean to make it sound as though I would lie with anyone," I say. I cannot look him in the eye. "Yours is the only bed I have ever asked to get into." Then I recall telling him about Théodred, and honesty compels me to add, "Well, the only one I have asked to get into and meant it. I mean, wanting joy, not just from desperation. Oh, Elbereth, I am making a sorry job of trying to explain this..." I risk a glance upwards, and see him looking at me, just the tiniest of smiles on his lips. Tentatively, I reach out. I place my hand on his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath my palm, lean forward and kiss him quickly.

"I think I should return to my own chamber, my Lord. Perchance we should forget about this, and try as best we can to pick up the strands of our friendship on the morrow." I get out of bed with as much dignity as I can muster (which, truthfully, is not much) and pick up the cloak. It strikes me that I had left it spread on top of the blankets when I got into the bed, and I realise the irony of the situation, the curious reversal, that I have covered him with my cloak. Of course, he does not realise the symbolism within my culture, which is just as well.

As I slip from the door, I whisper, "Good night Faramir. I am truly sorry."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Of course, I cannot forget. I lie in my own cold, narrow bed and stare at the ceiling and remember every moment of our encounter in exact detail. I alternate between burning desire and burning shame. In the past, in happier hours when I was first come to adulthood, but not yet terrified by the Worm's threats, I explored myself. Beneath the covers of my bed, in the quiet hours of the night, I learned how to give myself pleasure. But anything I felt in doing that is as nothing to the promise that Faramir's body held for me. And I reflect on the difference between my dreams of rapture and the real thing. The dreams were strangely unspecific. The reality is messy, untidy, with tangled shifts in the wrong place, limbs not quite fitting together, but oh, so much better for it. There is a rawness, a feeling that this is rooted in the earth, in the real world.

But I should not have done it. I have put our friendship at risk, maybe even destroyed it, and it is only now that its future is in doubt that I realise how precious it is to me. I start to try to tease out what has gone so dreadfully wrong. It is not so much that I have been a brazen hussy. But more that Faramir worries, I think, about my motives. I recall his comment about me latching onto the first man who shows me a crumb of kindness. He is worried that I could have done that to anyone. I suppose it is not very flattering to think that it was not him I wanted; anyone equally kind would have done. But do I really think that? He has reason to think so. It is only a week or so since I fancied myself in love with Aragorn.

Why have I chosen to phrase it thus to myself, "fancied myself in love", I wonder? I think back to my angry words, accusing Faramir of putting me on a pedestal. But of course, I am the one who is actually guilty of that. I put Aragorn on a pedestal – handsome, virtuous, brave, unattainable... and for that very reason, unthreatening. I would never have invited myself into Aragorn's bed, could not have done. Perhaps, if I am really honest, would not have wanted to.

So why Faramir? Simply because he showed me kindness? No, for when I thought he only pitied me, I despised him, or rather, despised his attention. It was only when I realised he offered me compassion, that he had suffered as I had, that I warmed to him. And he laughed with me, not because I was witty, or he was witty (though he can be, very much when he chooses), but because I was imperfect, down to earth, and that made me human. And I could laugh with him because he is human. I will never put him on a pedestal, which is not to say I do not admire him. He is brave, noble, kind, gentle, intelligent. But he also lets me see his hurts, his weaknesses. He is honest with me.

So, there is the crux of how bad a mess I have made. Faramir now thinks that I would have lain with any man who showed me kindness, when in fact I wanted to lie with him, and him only, because of who he was. Oh Béma, what a tangle. How do I find my way through this?

I think of the look he gave me when we first kissed, those grey eyes full of desire, and that unfathomable look of gentleness. Then I realise I am completely wrong. The crux of my problem lies in a quite different place. The situation is even worse than I have imagined. The look was not unfathomable at all. It was clear as the midday sun. Faramir loves me. And thinks that I only feel friendship, and that any man would have done, had he been in the right place at the right time. And he is devastated by that belief.

And as for me, what do I feel? Confusion, utter confusion. All I know is that I have hurt him and that I would give anything to undo that. That I want our friendship back, and I want the promise of what more there might have been had I not rushed into things before we understood each other's feelings. But that it may well be too late, for how can I hope to heal the hurt I have inflicted?

**Thank you for all the reviews. It's really good to know people are enjoying reading this story. I'm hoping for feedback on this chapter, as I know that if you were expecting the traditional order of events in most fics of this sort, this will have come as a bit of a suprise!**


	8. Darkness Unescapable

**Chapter 8: Darkness Unescapable**

**Disclaimer: I do not own this story, sadly. And in this chapter I return briefly to the canon events, so I have borrowed some of the dialogue from the original.**

**I have been very remiss in not thanking Lady Peter for the enormous amount of work she's done reading drafts of this. Thank you very much – I could not have done this without your help.**

**Warning: there are graphic descriptions of battle wounds in the first part of this chapter.**

Dawn finds me, gritty eyed and exhausted. I am no closer to untangling my feelings. But my reverie is interrupted by the maid, who brings a bowl of porridge and a clean dress in a drab brown colour. The porridge makes for a miserable breakfast, but there is nothing else. Unless Lothíriel's supplies arrive soon, the city will be in desperate straits. The maid laces up the back of the dress, then I slip a pinafore over the top to keep it clean during my labours and set off for the hall where the desperately injured lie. Lothíriel greets me there. We fetch and carry for a couple of hours before Ioreth allows us to take some respite. We retire to the walls, away from the stench of the sick room, and stand looking over the plains, with a waterskin. My mind skips back to the afternoon before, standing here beside Faramir. And I recall the innocent moments of flirtation in the garden which followed. The moments which may as well have been ages earlier, before I made such a mess of everything. How can I restore our friendship?

"Why so silent, Éowyn?" Lothíriel asks.

How I wish I could confide in her, ask her for advice. But I cannot do that, not without opening myself and Faramir to censure. And, much as I may deserve censure, he does not.

"Nightmares again," I say, "I could not sleep." This at least is the truth, if only part of it.

Then, across the scarred plain, in far the distance I make out the form of a galloping horse. From the blond hair, it looks to be one of our riders. He seems only to be able to use one arm, but that isn't enough to hinder him. Our vantage point gives us a view down to the main gate of the city. The rider gets closer and closer, finally reaching the gate, still at full pelt, then wheeling his horse in the narrow space beneath the gatehouse. We hear voices, too far away to make out what is being said, then see several runners scatter in different directions, presumably carrying messages. One seems to be making his way towards the Houses of Healing.

"We had better go back inside and see what is happening," Lothíriel says. We arrive back in the hall just in time to find a breathless lad of about fourteen summers delivering his message.

"There was a skirmish, on the way to the Black Gates. The rider who just came... he gave advance warning..." The lad pauses for breath. "They are bringing wagons with the most badly wounded. You will need to be ready. Two, maybe three score or more. They are mostly in a bad way, having been on wagons for three days now."

The warden immediately starts to issue orders. I am sent to fetch bars of carbolic soap, Lothíriel does the heavy work of carrying buckets of hot water. Maids are given the task of scrubbing down three wooden tables with the soap and hot water, while the kitchen is co-opted to clean the various medical instruments. I wince to see large saws among these. Having got the soap, I am sent to collect bottles of brandy and vinegar.

I ask Lothíriel about the brandy. "Do the healers get the men drunk before operating, to ease their pain?"

"No, for although it would dull their pain, it also makes them bleed more. They may get some to help them sleep once the bleeding has ceased," Lothíriel explains. "Mostly, though, it is used to cleanse wounds. The warden believes that pus should not be left in wounds, but that instead pus-filled abscesses should be drained and cleaned with vinegar and wine spirits. It is a theory that not many agree with, but so far, my impression is that fewer of the injured have died from fever in the days that have followed the battle than is usually the case."

Apparently, the practise is mostly to give the men a leather gag to bite on, then get someone strong to hold them down while the healers operate. She tells me also that in extreme cases, where nothing seems to staunch the bleeding, the warden's tactic of dipping the stumps of amputated limbs into hot pitch, brutal as it sounds, also helps. At this point in her explanation, I feel half tempted to take a healthy swig of the brandy myself. The next few hours will be hell on earth.

The first stretcher bearers start to appear while the maids are still scrubbing the tables. One of the older women of the house assesses each man as he is brought in. Some she deems can wait, others are urgent and are carried to the tables, yet others are beyond help and are taken to beds where they are given a tot of brandy to ease their passing. The small supplies of poppy syrup we have are kept back for those who might survive.

Some bear huge gashes and long open wounds. On arms and legs, the head, even on the chest, these are stitched, rapidly and efficiently. Only the abdominal wounds are left. These are a death sentence. As the stitching is done, many of the men pass out, a merciful release. The thing that staggers me is the speed with which the surgeons perform amputations, easing the skin back, excising the flesh, tying off blood vessels and cauterizing them with hot tongs, sawing through the bone, then drawing the flaps of skin which they secure with stitches, all in a matter of minutes. One healer alone manages six in the time I am there. I fear I shall live the rest of my life able to recall the harsh grating sound of the bone saw and the smell of men's flesh burning.

Because I have only one arm to use, I am mostly set to dealing with the men who are dying and beyond help. One in particular claims my attention. One of the assistants arrives at the bed just as I do. She is not skilled in surgery or stitching wounds, but has experience of dressing them, and has come to replace his bandages to make his passing hours more comfortable. As she draws back the blood-soaked cloth across his abdomen, it is all I can do to stop myself gasping with horror. How he has survived this long is beyond anyone's ken. He has a long sword slash, low across his stomach. The edges are ragged and bloody, the skin an angry red where infection has taken hold. Beneath the skin I can see a thin layer of yellow fat, then the pink flesh of his muscles, cut in twain by the blade. His flesh is mottled with greyish patches where gangrene has set in, and a putrid smell rises from the wound. I dig my nails into my hands to take my mind off the bile rising in my throat. Bulging out through the severed muscles are loops of his bowel, glistening greenish-grey. Even the nurse looks shocked, as she rapidly binds a clean bandage in place. She is meant to give only one tot of brandy, for our stocks are low, but she splashes an extra measure into the cup.

"Ivorwen," he murmurs. I kneel beside the bed. "I would like to see her, I have hung on this long."

I call over the young lad, the messenger who first brought us news of the wounded, and ask the dying man where she is to be found. He gives directions which mean nothing to me, but the lad nods, and runs off, fleet of foot. I sit by the bedside, helping the man to take tiny sips of water, just enough to keep his mouth wet, for clearly more than this would only hasten his death. And while for most of the men in this corner, the corner set aside for the dying, a rapid death would be a mercy, this man clearly seeks above all to cling to life long enough to bid farewell to his beloved.

After long minutes, the lad returns, accompanied by a young woman with her hair swathed in a scarf. I clench my fists beneath my apron again; she is heavy with child, and tears threaten to overwhelm me. But I fight them back. I am only an onlooker in this tragedy, and must control my feelings. I move over to the water barrel to allow them some privacy. For the next hour or so, she sits, holding his hand. All the while I go about my business with the other patients, but I cannot help but watch the couple out the corner of my eye.

At first they talk in low voices, but then the effort becomes too much for him, and his head sags back on the pillow. He looks at her for several minutes, his eyes never leaving her face, until eventually his eyelids flutter shut. I watch, out of the corner of my eye, as his breathing becomes shallower and shallower. I do not observe the moment his chest ceases to rise and fall, only learning of his death from her reaction. She gives a single, muffled cry, then, still holding his hand in hers, bows her head onto his chest and weeps silently.

I dip the water stoop into the barrel and refill my jug, gritting my teeth. Oh, to love like that and be loved. What a thing, both beautiful and terrible beyond measure. Beautiful because the strength of it allowed him to defy death for three long, agonising days. And terrible because of the pain of Ivorwen's grief.

For the first time in hours, I think of Faramir. He must have grieved thus for Linneth. And suddenly, all my confused thoughts are resolved into one simple, crystal clear realisation. I would grieve for him. He has become dear to me beyond measure. I feel an ache of need in my chest, a need for his presence. Whatever it takes, I will make things right between us.

This is the only moment I have for reverie in the rest of the long morning. I fetch water, mop brows, take away baskets of soiled dressings. The pinafore I wear over my drab brown dress is now smeared with blood and worse. Gradually, the chaos abates. The baskets of severed limbs are carried away, the most acutely injured men have been treated and only the Valar can now decide their fate, there is time to attend to the lesser wounds. I pause for a moment, and grasp the back of a chair for support. My head swims, and I feel as though my knees may fold under me. I blink a couple of times and shut my weary eyes for a moment. I wish I had not, for my mind fills with images of Éomer, Éothain, Gamling, Aragorn even, bearing the same wounds as I have just seen. But they lie on the battlefield in their agony, for all hope is gone. There are no wagons to bear them home, no home for them to return to. The whole world is ruin and destruction.

"Éowyn," a voice says. I open my eyes and look round and see Faramir's grey eyes looking at me intently. At first I am not sure what to make of his expression, which is calm, and gives nothing away. But he must see me sway slightly, for he steps forward and takes my arm, supporting me with a strong grasp. "Éowyn, come into the garden with me and rest. You are not yet in full health, and you have exhausted yourself. Come."

Wordlessly, he helps me out of the stained pinafore, and wraps the warm cloak he gave to me around my body. His hands brush my shoulders for a moment. Then he takes my arm once more and gently leads me to the door, down the narrow hallway and out into the garden.

We sit on the bench for a long time, in silence. At first, he holds my hand and strokes it gently. Then, seeing my head droop with tiredness, he wraps his arm around me and pulls my head close onto his shoulder. All he does is hold me, with a tenderness that takes my breath away. I rest my head, and let the sound of his heartbeat and breathing wash away the horrors of the morning.

My mind circles round how to broach the subject of last night's encounter. I cannot seem to find the right words, or indeed any words. Mardil of Lossarnach would have been able to deal with this moment better than I. Eventually, I speak, and it seems to me that meaningless babble falls from my lips.

"Last night, I did not want just anyone, you know. It was not just a response to the first man who had shown me any kindness. I wanted you, for who you are..." I curse my fumbling words.

Faramir rests his cheek against my head. "I know," he whispers into my hair.

In the hours before dawn, as I lay in my bed, I imagined all the different responses he might make to my stumbled words of apology and explanation. But this one I could not have imagined.

"You know?"

"Well, you did say as much to me last night. And you would never make a diplomat."

I cannot help myself: this makes me chuckle. "I suppose I have shown myself to lack all sense of decorum and propriety."

"Well, there is that," he says, and I feel his lips turn upwards in a smile, and hear the warmth in his voice. "But I was not thinking of your tendency to swear, and say things that most people would think were outrageous. I mean that you cannot hide your thoughts. Your face always lets me see what you are thinking."

"Then you have the advantage of me. I am not sure that I know what I am thinking," I say, which is, I realise, quite true. I know that I want Faramir, but quite what sort of feelings go with that want are still confused in my mind.

Again, he says simply: "I know." And he strokes my hair once more. Then he says, "I will wait while you work out what your feelings are. Though I would be lying if I did not admit that I hope they will settle in my favour."

"I thought... When you said that the first man who had shown me kindness... I worried that you might think me flighty, fickle, that you maybe still do, because I fancied myself in love with Aragorn. But that was some sort of girlish fancy. I think I was more attached to some sort of figment of my imagination than to a real man."

"And I am real?" Again, I can hear the smile in Faramir's voice as he says this.

"Yes, for you laugh when I am foolish, and you are honest with me, and you let me see your weaknesses, and sometimes you make me frustrated by falling prey to needless melancholy, or by trying to be more noble than any human being with imperfections has any right to be, and then I want to shake you out of your fit of melancholy, or your fit of nobility." Oh Béma, I am still not very good at expressing myself in words.

This time Faramir definitely laughs. "So you like me better than other men because sometimes I laugh at you, and sometimes I make you cross, and you think me too noble for my own good?"

"No, that's not what I am trying to say. Now you are teasing me. Though probably I deserve it. I am trying to explain why I think what I feel for you is real rather than some fancy, not why I feel it."

"And what is it you feel?" Faramir asks.

I blush, then go on the offensive. "You have not told me what you feel, and I believe it is customary for a gentleman to reveal his thoughts on the matter first."

Faramir lifts his head from its resting place against mine, and looks down at me. His look is teasing and knowing and seductive all at once. "I think we abandoned custom completely last night when you climbed into my bed a mere four days after we met," he whispers. "And I think I told you then, that from the moment I first saw you, I thought you the most beautiful woman I have ever met. But since I suspect that you are not one to be swayed by a man praising your beauty, I will say instead that I love your bravery, your honesty, your humour, your headstrong nature." His fingers run along my jaw. "And your passion," he says, then leans forward. His lips brush against mine, just for a moment. Then he leans back against the stonework, and cradles my head against his shoulder, taking hold of my hand as it lies on my lap and lacing his fingers with mine.

I suppose that this is the moment at which I should say something deeply felt about the change in my emotions, but instead my body takes control of the situation once more, this time to unleash an almighty yawn. I feel Faramir's chest shake with silent laughter.

"Come, my lady, you are exhausted after this morning. I saw enough of the aftermath of the scene in the houses of healing to know that you have worked hard through scenes of carnage. And I suspect you have not slept well. Rest now." And he draws my cloak close across my body, and strokes my hair with long, slow, soothing movements. I shut my eyes, and slide into a comfortable doze, recapturing the feeling of being cocooned in our own little world. I lose track of how long we sit thus.

Eventually, Lothíriel appears bearing a basket. She seems completely unperturbed by finding us in a close embrace, and, perhaps equally strangely, I feel no embarrassment. It seems that Faramir is similarly comfortable with this strange tableau, for he drops a gentle kiss on my forehead before disentangling his arm, only to take hold of my hand once more. We shift up the bench to make room for Lothíriel and her basket. She lifts the muslin cloth to reveal a hunk of bread and three wizened, precious apples. The three of us nibble at the dried bread in silence.

"This morning was as close to hell as I ever want to get," says Lothíriel, finally breaking the silence.

"I saw enough when I arrived to see what you had dealt with," says Faramir. "War is ever thus: bloody, horrible, desperate."

"To listen to my brothers talk of errantry when we were children, you would have thought it mere sport," says Lothíriel.

"Aye, but that was before they saw a real battle. I'll wager they think differently of it now," Faramir replies.

We finish the meal, such as it is, then Lothíriel takes her leave of us and returns to the sick room. Faramir and I sit on the bench for several long minutes, then I find myself growing restless.

"Let us go up onto the walls. I want to see what the day has in store for us." We stand and he offers me his arm. Together, we walk down the path to the flight of stone steps that lead up to the wall, and halt side-by-side on the battlements, looking East.

"What do you look for, Éowyn?", Faramir asks me. He follows my gaze out over the plains, across the river, to the dark, lowering mountains beyond.

"The Black Gates lie yonder. It is seven days since they rode away," I say.

"Seven days... which have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know." Faramir half turns towards me. He stares down at me. "Joy to see you, but pain because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."

"Lose what you have found?" My heart leaps at this. I look at him, and find his grey eyes fixed intently on me. I find myself filled with a need to comfort him, to make the world right for him, to be comforted in return, and I sense that he can see this in my face. But I find I cannot talk of this, not now, not with the dark clouds stretching across the sky from the eastern mountains towards the city. I try to explain this sense of impending disaster. "I stand on some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. I wait for some stroke of doom." Faramir holds my gaze, steady eyed, stern of face, and nods. I think he too feels this sense of doom.

We look out across the plain once more. The chill east wind which has haunted us for the last days suddenly drops, leaving an eerie calm in its place. The sun seems to fade, blotted by high cloud which leaves its light grey and wan, its warmth sucked out of the world leaving us cold and shivering. Even the birds seem to fall silent.

Our hands brush against each other, and without looking, or thinking, we clasp them together, clinging to one another for warmth and comfort. Far off, immeasurable leagues hence, behind the distant black mountains we see a sudden red flame leap into the sky, and a dark cloud reaching up to the heavens, blotting out the sky, billowing, roiling, menacing. Then a wave of sound, a distant roaring, seems to flow over the land like a wave breaking upon the shore. And the ground trembles under our feet.

"It reminds me of Númenor," Faramir says. I find the sound of his voice an anchor in a world of chaos, and grip his hand with mine, our fingers interlacing. "The land of Westernesse that foundered beneath the sea, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable."

I shut my eyes. "Do you think that the Darkness is coming? Darkness unescapable?" Instinctively, I move closer to him, and press against his shoulder, then open my eyes once more. He looks down at me, his eyes calm, gentle. His hand reaches up to rest on my shoulder. I rest my cheek against his chest. Suddenly it comes to me that whatever our fate, I feel completely safe. Whether we live or die, whether our world survives or tumbles into destruction, I am not alone. I will face what comes with Faramir by my side.

I feel his breath on my hair as he answers my question.

"No," he says, "It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and a a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure." And I feel his lips brush my forehead.

We wrap our arms around one another, and turn to face the east. A fierce wind suddenly engulfs us, whipping at our cloaks and hair. The clouds blow from the face of the sun, torn away like streamers, and the water of the distant river gleams silver in the sunlight. Suddenly our hearts are light, and we hear people across the city cry out in relief. Through the shreds of high cloud, we see a single Eagle, huge and proud, soaring high above the plain.

He cries to us, bringing glorious tidings of the fall of Sauron and the victory or our King. "Sing now, sing and rejoice," his voice commands us, "Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West."

And from the streets in the city below us, we hear the voices of people singing joyous songs.

Faramir draws me close to him, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

"The darkness could not endure; and now the world is made anew, full of hope," he says.

**Author's notes:**

**The ancient Greek physician Galen held that pus was important for the healing of wounds; this view was not challenged until Medieval times by Hugo of Lucca among others (a challenge seen as dangerously radical at the time).**

**The use of brandy (or rum) post-operatively, rather than during the operations, is taken from descriptions of the Battle of Trafalgar. Hot pitch was also used there, but only sparingly, in the most extreme cases. The surgeons and their assistants prided themselves on the speed with which they could perform amputations. William Beatty, the surgeon on Nelson's ship, performed ten amputations after the battle. It was common practise to tie off the arteries and other blood vessels then leave them dangling, which often led to post-operative infections. I've made my surgeons take a bit more care.**

**Thank you very much again for the reviews. All of them were very much appreciated. I felt I went out on quite a limb with the last chapter – it was deliberate, but I knew there was a risk that some of my readers might think it was a case of "too much, too soon." I've had a positive reception, and most of you seem to have come along with what I was trying to do. I'd also like to thank the guest reviewer who was honest enough to say she had reservations – but also kind enough to say that she would keep reading anyway. Also, I really believe that there is no single "correct" way to read a story. I know what I was hoping to get across, and I'm very glad that it seems to have worked that way for many of you. If it hasn't, that could be my shortcomings as an author, or it could be simply that as readers we all bring our own personal experience to a text, so there is no such thing as a single interpretation.**

**I don't want to say too much about it because one of the things I'm finding interesting about writing in the first person is that it stops me using the authorial voice (which I tend to overuse, so this is a good discipline for me). And I don't want to tell you how you should be reading this. But Tommy Ginger was spot on in some of her personal messages to me (I hope she doesn't mind me mentioning them). I'm interested in the idea that in wartime, especially when you think the end of the world might genuinely be imminent, typically people question or act against received moral codes; stuff which once seemed like immutable moral law starts to feel like arbitrary social convention. And I'm also interested in the idea that real relationships don't necessarily follow the story book order of emotional discovery, realisation of love, declaration of commitment, marriage, consummation. Sometimes (as Tommy Ginger put it very well) people do things in the "wrong" order, but it still works out for them.**


	9. Courtly Dances

**Chapter 9: Courtly Dances**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, only borrowed.**

Faramir and I stood together on the walls for a long time, hand in hand, struck dumb by feelings of relief. But eventually he had to leave to return to his duties, organising the distribution of the scarce food and the much-needed supplies, with the additional problem of finding food to send to the armies at the field of Cormallen. Now I am sitting alone in my chamber, curiously numb. A flat feeling of listlessness has overcome me, and I feel guilty too, because surely I should be overcome with joy. It is still quite cold in the small stone room, and I am wearing the blue jewelled cloak. Perhaps it is my fancy, but it seems to me that on its collar I can smell the faint scent of Faramir, his soap, his hair, everything that is him, from when we stood embracing each other. If it is just a fancy, it is a tender one, and cheers me slightly.

Suddenly there is a knock at the door, and my heart soars for a moment, hoping it is Faramir, though I know that in all probability it is not. I bid my visitor enter. It is Lothíriel, with a package under her arm. She takes several swift strides across the room as I rise to greet her, then, dropping the package on the bed, wraps her arms round me in a hug.

"I cannot believe we have won," she says, releasing me.

"Nor I. It all seems unreal," I reply. Lothíriel gives me an appraising glance, and for a moment, she looks uncannily like her cousin.

"It is too much to take in at once, isn't it?" she asks.

"Yes, I should be feeling joy but instead... it is almost as if I feel nothing. Perhaps it would be easier if I had been in the battle and was now physically exhausted, but filled with the exhilaration of having survived. Or if I had something of importance to do, like Faramir."

"It will come," she says. "I know exactly what you mean. We have lived under this dread for so long, and though it is not so long since our city was besieged, we are so far removed from the final battle, that the ending of it seems unreal." She pauses, then smiles. "You like Fara, don't you?"

"Yes," I say. It seems pointless to deny it. I feel slightly ridiculous, though, for I feel the heat rise in my skin, and know I am blushing, like some slip of a girl.

"He loves you, you know," Lothíriel continues. I nod. "Good, then I can trust you not to be awkward about accepting what I have brought for you. There is to be a court dinner of sorts tonight to celebrate. Fara is to preside over it, as Lord Steward, and there will be lots of elderly noblemen who were too infirm to go to war. So I suppose it will not be the most thrilling of celebrations, and in any case, there is not much food for a feast, but we shall make shift somehow. And you cannot go in one of these drab hospital dresses. I have brought you a gown of mine – it will be a bit tight across the bosom, but if Fara is anything like my brothers, he will only like it the better for that. Then again, he isn't really like them, so it may be a mistake to think he will notice such things – he is a bit shy."

Béma, now I am scarlet with embarrassment. I have a sudden, unbidden, extremely vivid recollection of Faramir's cock pressed hard against me, coupled with the awkward knowledge that were it not for a couple of thin layers of cloth and my broken arm, I would no longer be a maid. Just the thought of it sends blood surging round my body – not just to my cheeks, either. I comfort myself with the thought that Lothíriel will almost certainly mistakenly attribute my blush to innocence rather than experience. She busies herself opening the package, and shakes out a fine silk dress, of a rich dark red.

"Oh, this is too much." I cannot imagine myself in such a gown. Sometimes, pieces of silk brought by traders from the far South make their way to Rohan, and are sewn in as panels to decorate dresses, but a whole dress? But not only is it of silk, the colour is unlike anything I have seen. Wool and linen take green and blue dyes well, even shades of rusty red, but not this incredible deep ruby shade.

"Nonsense," Lothíriel responds, her tone brisk and business-like. She holds it up against me. "You are a bit taller than I, but it will do very nicely, I think." And equally briskly, she unlaces the back of my drab woollen dress, then helps me into the silk dress, lacing the back as if she were my maid. She is right about the bosom; the fabric is rather tight. My traitorous imagination unhelpfully supplies me with a vision of Faramir holding me close, his height giving him the perfect vantage point. And surely the texture of this silk, shot through with iridescent threads, was meant for a man's hands to roam across. Then I wonder what it would feel like to have him unlace the back of the gown. I swallow, and hope that none of my thoughts show on my face.

"Éowyn?" I give a slight start. Lothíriel laughs. "You were wool-gathering! And I'd wager that I could tell the direction of your musings." Oh Béma, my thoughts do show on my face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Palace of the Stewards is huge and grand, more impressive than any building I have ever seen. But the stone is cold and impersonal, and it serves only to make me long for the warm wood and living carvings of Meduseld. I follow Lothíriel into the great hall. Faramir stands at the far end of the room, talking to a group of elderly men in formal clothes. There are a few other people in the room, including a handful of older women who have chosen to stay in Minas Tirith even though most of the women and children left before the siege.

He turns, first noticing Lothíriel's approach and giving her a warm smile, his face suddenly lit with happiness. Then he sees me. Faramir said earlier today that he could always see my thoughts written on my face. But this time I can see his. His normally guarded, diplomatic expression has vanished. In its place is a look of infinite tenderness. The look lasts only a moment, then he seems to remember his surroundings, and schools his features into an expression of polite friendliness. He seems to make his excuses to the noblemen he has been talking to, then makes his way over to us and greets us with the sort of formality to be expected in these surroundings.

"Dear cousin," he says, kissing Lothiriel's hand. "And my Lady Eowyn of Rohan." And he kisses my hand. The gesture is polite, but my skin seems to come alive beneath his lips. Then his hand rests on my sleeve, and he whispers in a very low voice, "You are beautiful." His tone of voice, and the smile which accompanies his words, make me forget to breathe. But the moment is only fleeting.

"My Lord Steward, the tables have been set and all is ready," a voice says from behind his shoulder. Again, Faramir adopts a more neutral expression, and turns and thanks the man. He offers an arm to both of us, and escorts the two of us to the group of men at the other end of the hall. He introduces us, and an elderly lord, the Lord Turgon of Lamedon, is given the task of escorting me to dinner.

I find myself seated at the high table between Turgon and another equally elderly councilman of the citadel, Lord Castamir. Opposite us sits Castamir's wife, a thin, pinched woman. Turgon strikes me as gentlemanly enough, but Castamir and his wife, with their aloof manner, are the embodiment of my prejudices about Gondorian nobility. To my disappointment, Faramir is too far away to converse with, several seats away on the other side of the table. Beside him sits Lothíriel, as befits her station as Princess of Dol Amroth.

I try to make polite conversation. Some comes easily enough – we are all of us in a state of exhausted relief at the ending of the war and our unlikely victory. Lord Turgon praises the Rohirrim in suitably sincere tones, and even Castamir and his wife utter some polite thanks.

But the jostling for position and the court politics is a game I cannot join. I am not sure of the rules of the game, nor the undercurrents in the discussion. And I am certainly in ignorance of the power structures and hidden alliances and rivalries around the table.

One recurring theme is the fact that an unknown Ranger of the North has come to Gondor and led the armies to victory, and now claims the Kingship. It becomes abundantly clear to me that some of these old men do not like the upset this poses to their familiar hierarchy, and doubt the validity of his claim. I am not sure whether to mention the fact that I have met Aragorn, and that my Uncle, my brother and Mithrandir are all convinced that he is indeed Elendil's heir. I decide that this is most definitely an issue where I might do more harm than good were I to get involved in the conversation. This proves to be a wise decision, for I soon discover that opinion is sharply divided on the issue of the value of Mithrandir's counsel. It becomes clear that Castamir was a close ally of Faramir's father.

"Lord Turgon, while I do not doubt the part that Mithrandir played in holding back the enemy's hordes from our gates, you must surely remember that Lord Denethor, may his soul rest with Mandos, felt that the wizard was too ready to meddle in sovereign affairs of state."

"One does not wish to speak ill of the dead, but perchance such meddling was needed," Turgon responds. "These last few months, his judgement on occasion lacked the acuity of earlier times." Béma, what a long-winded way of saying Denethor wasted his troops and almost his only remaining son in a vainglorious piece of insanity.

"Denethor was a brilliant man, and shrewd tactician," Castamir answers, "And husbanded the resources of the city most ably."

"No one is denying that, at least not until the very last days of his life. But in his final months, his decisions did not always lie with the best of the options available," Turgon says. "His decision to attempt to retake Osgiliath, when we clearly did not have the forces to do the job, was not well conceived."

The man to the left of Castamir's wife glances down the table, and adds his voice in support of the late Denethor. "On the contrary, the fault lay not with Lord Denethor. For Denethor was not on the field of combat, and a general may come up with the best of strategies, only to have it fail because of the tactical inadequacies of his junior officers."

I find myself clenching my hand round a non-existent sword hilt at this comment. Merry has told me the details, gleaned from Pippin and Mithrandir, of the retreat from Osgiliath. If I recall Merry's words aright, he described it as a suicide mission, and made it clear that were it not for Faramir's captaincy, none of the troops would have returned alive. I am so incensed I almost miss Castamir's next comment. He returns, with veiled hints, to his earlier theme that the short supplies in the city are not merely due to having been besieged but in some way due to a miscalculation in organising what scarce resources are left. Obviously Castamir and his ally are guarded in what they say explicitly, for the object of their subtly implied censure is but a few seats away. I find that I must read their views more from what they leave unsaid than from what they say, but it is clear that they do not approve of Faramir coming to the Stewardship of the City. And Turgon, while clearly of the opinion that Faramir's performance on the field of combat was beyond reproach, adopts a studied neutrality when it comes to assessing Faramir's abilities as Steward. I sense that he is reserving judgement, but could be swayed to join Castamir's faction if more damning evidence could be given of Faramir's alleged mismanagement.

To add to the discomfort of the whole affair, there is the insane contrast between the elderly lords' political manoeuvrings and the sidelong glances Faramir keeps sending my way, which make my insides turn to liquid fire. And the fact that I am sure that I have seen Lothíriel intercept some of these glances, and she is struggling to maintain her countenance. Several times I see the corners of her lips twitch, and she reaches for her napkin to hide her expression. Would that I found the situation so amusing. But I am all too aware that any of those glances, if intercepted by the wrong eyes, would only add grist to the mill as far as Castamir's machinations are concerned. For I am an unknown quantity, a stranger from a wild Northern realm, and no doubt if they do not seek to depose Faramir outright, they will have in mind some alliance with some part of their power block, presumably to be cemented in the way Lothíriel described to me, by a suitable marriage to one of their daughters. I can only hope that the coming of Aragorn to take up his rightful kingship will put a stop to this impending power struggle.

Then, just as I think the evening can become no more awkward than it is already, suddenly there is one of those lulls in conversation which occasionally take place even in large gatherings. And into the near-silence, Castamir's wife says something in a deliberate stage-whisper to the man next to her, the man who is clearly her husband's ally. The words are in that form of Elvish which the Gondorian court uses, for seemingly this woman has abandoned even the pretence of including me in their conversation. I feel everyone stiffen with shock, so she must have said something truly outrageous. But the really unsettling thing is Faramir's reaction; his face has gone pale with fury.

Lothíriel reacts quickly, with the polished ease of someone who has seen these political games played out from her earliest years. "But of course the Lady Éowyn is a shieldmaiden. She was among the Rohirrim host who rode to our aid in our darkest hour. I for one shall be eternally grateful to her and her countrymen." I suspect that she has left out a crucial adjective in front of 'shieldmaiden'.

The woman's conversational partner tries to poison Lothíriel's attempts at diplomacy. "A woman, in a battle? With the best will in the world, madam, surely you were more of a hindrance than a help. How many of your comrades fell defending you? I see you took a serious hurt to your arm, which must have incommoded both you and your bodyguards considerably."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Faramir about to explode. I decide both that he needs me to prevent him making a complete fool of himself, and also that I can fight my own damned battles.

"My shield arm was broken by the morning star wielded by the Witch King of Angmar. But although it incommoded me, as you put it," I say, carefully and deliberately adopting the tone of voice one uses towards a small child, "You must understand that, being my shield arm, it was my left arm. Broken or no, it did not stop me taking his head off with the sword I held in my right." I say this in a crystal clear voice that rings round the hall. And I look at the worm of a man opposite with the same look of ice and steel that I gave the Wraith as I told him that I, Éowyn daughter of Éomund, was no man. He shrivels visibly. I smile. There will be no need for decapitation, this time at any rate.

There is a stunned silence in the hall. All eyes are on me, but the ones I feel most keenly are Faramir's. He is looking at me, quite openly, with an unabashed look of desire, the same look I saw on his face last night as we clung to each other, half naked, in the candlelight. Thank heavens that Lothíriel, ever the diplomat, interjects again.

"You must be looking forward to seeing your brother again. Will you ride to Cormallen?"

"Your brother?" asks Lord Turgon, who is clearly more than happy to lend aid to Lothíriel's diplomatic mission. "Would I be right in thinking he is one of the lords of Rohan?"

At this, Faramir speaks. "The Lady Éowyn is sister to the King of Rohan." Again, he gives me a look of undisguised admiration, which surely must be noticed by everyone. I try to speak rapidly to defuse the situation and distract attention.

"Though my brother would be the first to say how he would rather, a thousand times over, that Théoden King were still alive. But these times have taken much that is best from both our realms." My words seem to get through to Faramir; he gathers his wits, and stands. He delivers a brief but moving eulogy for the fallen, talking respectfully of his father and with great fondness and warmth of his brother. Then he proposes a toast to the dead, and we stand to bid our farewells to those we have loved.

After this incident, the rest of the dinner passes in relative, if dull, calm. At the end of the evening, Lothíriel very pointedly takes my arm, curtseys to Faramir and makes our farewells. She links arms with me and steers me out of the room.

"Making sure I don't decapitate any Gondorian nobility?" I whisper to her.

"No, making sure you are visibly chaperoned. Sainted Valar, some of the looks you and Fara were exchanging. It might have been acceptable had he been gazing at you with the sort of pure, courtly love my aunt's dreadful books speak of. And if you were returning shy, chaste glances. But I think I now understand at first hand the meaning of the phrase 'undressing someone with one's eyes'."

"Nay, at second hand, only," I say. I find that I have got past the stage of being embarrassed. "Do you think anyone else noticed?"

"Everyone noticed. Why else do you think that dreadful woman made her dreadful comment?"

"Out of interest, I collect that there was a word attached to 'shieldmaiden' which you did not translate. What was it?"

"Barbarian," says Lothíriel, grimly.

I laugh. "I suppose I should be grateful it wasn't 'wanton'. And there are various lords of Gondor who should be grateful that I was not carrying my sword."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It is an hour or so later, and still I cannot sleep. I have been tossing and turning ever since I got into my narrow bed. I feel utterly drained and miserable. Today the shadow in the East has been defeated and I should be filled with joy and happiness. And yet I have had no great celebration, only that hideous travesty in the Palace of the Steward. Nor have I felt like celebrating. Had Éomer been here, how different things would have been. He would have swept me into a bear-hug, and the Rohirrim would have thrown themselves whole heartedly into celebration. There would have been singing, drinking, dancing. Not the staid, formal dances of Gondor, where solemn and proper young maidens are held daintily by the fingertips, but the cheery reels and rounds of my country, where the girls are grasped by the waist, and once grasped, flung merrily around the dance floor until they are breathless and giggling. And in circumstances like these, Éomer would not have cared if his sister had partaken of too much mead. Who knows, maybe I would have even joined in the soldiers' bawdy songs: I know the words now.

And maybe Faramir would have escaped from the horrible formal feast to dance with me amid the tents of our Éoreds. I imagine his hands at my waist, his face smiling down at me as we swirl round and round to the wild fiddles and fifes. And I imagine him pulling me out of the circle of light made by the bonfires, and into the shadows, where he kisses me, and makes free with his hands, and I am happy to let him make free, I encourage him to further exploration, I let my own hands rove over his hard muscles. I imagine us finding our way to where the horses are stabled, and tumbling into the hay together, to finish what we started last night. The very thought of it makes moisture pool between my legs – I have pleasured myself often enough to recognise that feeling. For a moment I wonder whether to run my fingers there, imagining them to be Faramir's. But instead I content myself with imagining the smell and scent of the hay, the feel of Faramir's lips and beard on my skin.

Then I wonder whether Éomer would come looking for me, and whether he would react as he had in my dream. Éomer! Suddenly I am hit by heart-wrenching grief. I do not even know whether he is alive. The Eagle brought only the news of victory, no list of the dead or wounded. I find myself whispering the prayers to the Mother of the Earth from my childhood, she whom the Elves call Yavanna, and to the Mother of the Stars, Elbereth. I feel tears trickle onto my pillow.

Then my mind starts to run once more through the horrible dinner. My head spins at the thought of the spiteful murmurings aimed at Faramir and (in his absence) at Aragorn. And at the same time, my head spins in quite a different way when I think of the way Faramir looked at me, as though he wanted to possess me and take me for his own. For, gentle as he is, and much as I know that he would only take me if I was full willing and wanted him every bit as much as he wants me, there is no doubt of the fierceness of his desire for me. And so my mind spirals round: bleak feelings of anti-climax; worry about my brother; hatred of the old men of the court; desire for Faramir. Round and round, pointlessly, endlessly.

It is during this futile circling that I hear a soft knock at the door to my chamber.

"Who is there?" I ask, though the feelings of molten quicksilver low in my stomach tell me the answer I want, and that answer comes.

"Faramir," he says softly, then lifts the latch and slips into my room, dropping the bar across the door behind him. It is his turn to shift awkwardly from foot to foot. "I had to come to you. I had to tell you that I was sorry. Sorry for forcing you to endure that mad simulacrum of a real celebration. Sorry for the evil words of Castamir and his allies. I could not leave you alone at night with the memories of that, not on this night, of all nights, when we should be filled with hope, not poisoned by bitter strife. And throughout that torture, all I wanted was to be with you. We have finally, against all chance and reason, come victorious to the end of a war that has lasted centuries before our birth, and I want to be alive, not half-dead, to be with someone alive, not to be surrounded by those more dead than alive."

"I know. I have felt strangely listless and sad all day, and I need to let go, to come back to life. I want the sort of celebration my countrymen would have had, with singing, and dances, and mead flowing freely."

"Gladly would I have danced with you, and sung songs to your beauty," Faramir says.

Then, in an echo of last night, I lift the corner of the covers. "Get into the warmth."

He looks at me, eyes dark and stormy. "Éowyn," he says, hesitantly, his breath catching, his voice filled with want. "Is this wise? You know what will happen if I get into your bed."

"Yes," I say, simply. "Now get into the damnèd bed."

I see his throat move as he swallows, then he starts to take off his clothes. First his cloak is cast over the chair, then he pulls off his boots. The way he hops from foot to foot would amuse me in any other circumstances, but all I can think about is how much I desire him. In the last day, I have been consumed with burning need. But now I feel more than just need: there is an aching void in the centre of me. My need is a physical pain, and I shake and tremble with want.

Faramir unfastens his tunic and pulls it over his head. I watch in the flickering candlelight, taking in the shape of his shoulders, the hair across the muscles of his chest, the way his waist tapers down to his hips. He slips off his breeches, and, clad only in his braies, steps towards the bed.

"You might as well take those off," I say, stunned at my boldness. "After all, we know what a sorry muddle I made of trying to take them off one-handed." Faramir smiles, a wild, feral smile full of desire, and again I feel as though my insides are melting. He unfastens the braies and steps out of them. Oh Béma! I take in the sight of his cock, standing proud, amid the dark hair at the top of his thighs. Of their own volition, the muscles inside me clench and contract. My stomach feels as if it is tied into a knot. I rise up onto my knees, holding the covers back. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling and facing me. I swallow hard.

"Can you help me with my shift?" Gazing at me, he reaches out and takes the hem of the garment, pulling it gently up, easing it carefully over my injured arm. Once more my insides are filled with fire at the look he gives me, his eyes travelling slowly, hungrily, possessively over my naked body.

"Éowyn," he whispers, and reaches out to run his hand across my shoulder, then down over my breast, brushing the nipple, then down over my belly. I reach out with my good arm, and touch his chest. Gently, he takes hold of me and lowers me back down on the mattress, then his mouth meets mine, in a kiss that is first soft, then becomes hot and wanton as his tongue explores mine. I grab at his hair, and push my tongue back against his. We both moan, our kiss becoming wild and uncontrollable. He runs his hand over my hip then up the inside of my thigh. I cannot control myself: my hips jerk as his hand dips into the moisture between my legs and slides forward across the sensitive folds.

"Faramir... Please..." These are all the words I can find, and I move my hips to meet him. This time, I feel his cock at my entrance and this time there is no fabric to hinder him. I raise my hips, trying to push against his hardness, while clinging to his back with my right arm. He whispers my name, then pushes himself inside. The noise I make is like an animal, hungry, primal. It hurts, yes, but at the same time it takes away the empty ache. I am full, stretched by the hard length of him, his body pressing down on me, and the glory of it fills my mind as he fills my body.

He lies still for a moment and covers my mouth with a gentle kiss, and I lie, taking the measure of this new feeling. Then he eases himself back, and I whimper at the loss of him. But this is only the precursor to him pushing back into me, a firmer thrust this time, and now I groan with the pleasure of it. He has left his fingers nestling in the triangle of hair at the top of my legs, and, slick with moisture from me, they stroke in time with his thrusts. I can hear my own breath coming in gasps and moans, hear the answering sounds of his desire, and I move my hips against him as I try to push back against his length with each thrust, encouraging him to bury himself within me. Somewhere beneath his fingers, a hot fire starts to spread outwards, engulfing me, and my mind loses all sense of reality, breaking into myriad pieces. I think I scream out as I am overcome by the sensation. Then I lie, trembling, no coherent thought possible. But now my body senses a sudden emptiness, and all at once I feel his cock pressed against my belly as he shudders convulsively, hot liquid spilling between us, wet and slick over our skin. His body becomes limp, and I lie beneath his weight, both our breathing coming in ragged gasps.

I am not sure how long we lie like this, utterly spent. Eventually, Faramir eases himself up and raises his head.

"Éowyn, my beautiful Éowyn, my love," he whispers, and his smile is like the sun rising. He strokes his fingers across my cheek. Then a look of concern crosses his face. "I must find a cloth, lest my seed..." I realise all of a sudden why he left me empty and spilled himself across my belly. For some reason, utterly unaccountable given what we have just shared, this makes me blush, though I doubt he can see this in the candlelight. He leans over the side of the bed and grabs his braies, using them to wipe up. Then, dropping them onto the floor, he draws the covers back over us, and pulls me against his chest.

We lie like this, with him stroking my hair, for an age or more, before either of us feels ready to put our thoughts into words. For the first time I can remember for many years, I feel at peace.

"We may not have been able to dance and sing," Faramir whispers into the near-darkness, "But I feel joy at last."

I turn my face upwards, and kiss the stubble on his jaw. "Joy. Yes, that seems right."

"You have no regrets?"

"None. We have escaped the world's ruin. What could be more fitting than this?" I murmur.

I roll onto my back to ease my arm into a more comfortable position. Faramir raises himself on one elbow and gazes at me. His fingers trace gently over my skin.

"You are beautiful, my love," he says. In response, I let my right hand drift over his chest, up to his shoulder, then over the muscles of his arm. He gives a soft hum of contentment as I do this, then smiles, and I feel a bubble of happiness grow in my chest, swelling so large I feel it will stop me from breathing. Suddenly he gives a broad grin, and reaches across me, to the chair beside the bed. I wonder for a moment what he is doing. He grabs the cloak he dropped earlier, and pulls it over to the bed, spreading it on top of both of us. Then he kisses me very gently.

"I spoke to Lothi of your embarrassment when I gave you a cloak. She told me what it means." And again, he kisses me. Then, wrapped in his cloak and in his arms, I drift off to sleep.


	10. Songs of joy and loss

**Chapter 10 Songs of Joy and Loss  
**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, only borrowed.**

I open my eyes to find the grey half-light before dawn filtering through the high, narrow window. Beside me, Faramir stirs, rolling onto his side, then raising his head slightly to look at me. His dark curls are wild and unruly, his eyes filled with sleep still. But his smile, oh, his smile. That smile could warm me through a whole hard winter in my native land. Without even pausing for thought, I reach out with my good hand and slide my fingers through his hair, pulling his head down, pressing my mouth to his. The kiss is hot and demanding, and I give a tiny whimper as he finally pulls his lips away from mine.

"Éowyn, you know that I want to stay here, stay and love you, but I must go. People will start to stir soon, and I must return to my own chamber before I am missed, or worse, seen leaving yours." His eyes, stormy grey, look into mine, and he dips his head towards me to steal another kiss.

I run my hand across his cheek. "I know you must go. But I too wish you could stay, wish we could lie here for all eternity." Then I giggle. "Or at least till noon, for I am sure we would eventually need to eat." Then I wonder at myself. How many years has it been since I giggled at something?

Faramir laughs, and strokes my hair, then kisses me once more. Then his brows knit together in a frown, and he becomes serious.

"I may not see much of you for a few days. I must see to the food supplies: if Lothí's ships do not arrive soon, the population will start to go hungry. And they have suffered so much, I would do anything to avoid adding to their burdens. Also, when people get hungry, strife and unrest are not far behind. As well as that, I need to send supplies to Cormallen. Lord Aragorn, realising how short of food Minas Tirith was, and, knowing the odds and ever the pragmatist, took only supplies for the outward journey." His eyes are filled with concern. As with his troops, he cares deeply for the people of his native city. I reach out and stroke his cheek, brushing his dark hair back, and he turns his head slightly to kiss my fingertips.

Then a more cynical expression crosses his face. "Not only that, you were there at that hideous dinner last night – and you are shrewd, intelligent and versed in the ways of court life. You know that Castamir seeks to find reason to remove me from my office and set himself up as Regent. And his eye is on the longer game: challenging the validity of Aragorn's claim to the throne. I must tread carefully, and must not only do my job well, but be seen to be doing it well. I would hate us to have survived the war against Sauron's evil, only for the lesser evil of men to undo us." He pauses, and a troubled look crosses his face. I sense that he wants to say something but fears to hurt me.

"And you fear that if you are seen instead to be dallying with a barbarian shieldmaiden from the wilds of the North, Castamir and his allies will claim you to be in dereliction of your duties," I say.

"Ah, so Lothí told you what his shrew of a wife said. Yes, there is that." He strokes my cheek in return and looks at me tenderly. Then his face takes on a grave sadness. "You will think me a wretch, an unprincipled wretch. I want to claim you as mine, proclaim my love for you. But there is more at stake here than just the two of us. Castamir will use you to tear my country apart, if he finds out about us."

"Hush, my love, my foolish love. No-one could think you unprincipled." I run my fingers through his hair, then smile. "Though if it appeals to your tendency to be overly harsh with yourself, I will call you 'wretch' if you want, but only if I am allowed to kiss you at the same time."

Faramir laughs softly at this. "Will you wait for a happier hour, when I can give to you all the time that is yours by right? For I promise that I will love you so well, so much, that I will make up for the next few days a thousand fold."

Suddenly I am pierced through and through by a feeling of love for him. I look at his face, so serious and sad now, and say, "I know that you love me. And I know that you have never made a promise which you did not keep, so I trust you with all faith."

Faramir gives me a gentle kiss, then gets out of bed. I take in the line of his back, his muscles outlined as he moves, his buttocks and hamstrings, those long legs. And I am filled with a sense of possessiveness. This is my man, and no other woman shall ever have him. Then he half turns to reach for his breeches, cast carelessly over the chair, and I see a glimpse of his stomach muscles, carved taut. My eyes drift inexorably lower, and I see his cock twitch, already half erect. I look up at his face, to find him looking back at me, an enigmatic look on his face.

"I thought to feel arousal watching your beauty. But this is a new and curious thing. I find myself aroused seeing you watching me." The enigmatic look becomes a smile, and I can see his quicksilver mind considering this new idea, examining it from every angle. It seems to please him very much. I am not sure what to say, so I draw back the covers, wordlessly inviting him to join me. He steps towards me, then stops abruptly.

"Éowyn! The sheets. There is blood on your sheets." I look down to see a smear of blood across the white linen. "I have brought disgrace upon you," he says, brow furrowed, an anguished look on his face. I find myself both shaking my head at his foolishness and at the same time rejoicing in his concern for me.

"Nay, I have but to tell the maid that my monthly courses started a little earlier than normal. It will require a degree of artifice to maintain the lie, but I am sure all can be managed." I pause for a moment, then add, with a grin, "It is fortunate that we did not lie together the other night, for I cannot think of any plausible explanation why you could have come to have blood on your sheets."

Faramir smiles too, then his face grows serious again. How quickly his moods seem to change. It is not just his reasoning, but also his emotions that move like quicksilver. Beneath the calm surface he presents to the world, his whole being is mercurial.

"Éowyn, did I hurt you?" he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and running his hand over my shoulder. "I should have held myself in check better."

"It was nothing to signify, and replaced so soon with pleasure that it was forgotten almost the instant it had happened," I answer, placing my hand on top of his. "And I did not want you to hold yourself in check. I wanted to feel your passion." I feel a tremor run through him as I say this and for a moment I wonder whether he will get back into the bed with me. Then, through the window, muffled by the panes of glass, comes the sound of footsteps in the courtyard below.

"I should go," says Faramir. The moment of desire has passed, spoiled by the thought that other people are beginning to stir. He pulls on his clothes (except for the soiled braies), and bends to give me another kiss, his lips soft upon mine.

"Help me back into my shift – I do not think I could explain easily how I came to be sleeping naked," I say, and Faramir obliges, his fingertips brushing my skin as he helps me get the garment over my head and more importantly, over my arm. One final kiss, and he is gone, closing the door softly behind him. I pull the covers about me, the bed feeling chill and empty without him beside me. His scent lingers on the pillow, and I roll over and bury my face in it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When I enter the hall in the houses of healing, Lothíriel greets me with a quizzical look.

"You seem very happy," she says, in the bland diplomatic tone I have learned she uses when she is trying to get a reaction from me. I try very hard not to give anything away.

"This time yesterday morning, we thought we were on the brink of the end of the world, and today the war is over and we have won. Of course I am happy," I reply. Lothíriel gives a muffled snort and returns to her task of folding bandages.

Lothíriel is not the only one to notice my mood. Ioreth has given me the job of tending to our Riders, and as I move among them, bringing water, changing the simpler dressings, fetching and emptying bed pans, several of them comment on my smile. Two in particular, Aldwulf and Cynefrid, hit pretty near the mark.

"So, my lady, was there dancing and mead to celebrate last night?" Cynefrid asks.

"Do these strange folk even know how to dance?" Aldwulf adds.

"Of course they do, dullard. Can you not see from the lady's face that she did not want for a dancing partner last night?" Cynefrid says.

"They had a celebration of sorts, but it was very stiff and formal," I say, but I cannot quite keep the laughter out of my eyes.

"Very slow witted, these Gondorians must be, not to want to dance when there is a lady as beautiful as you present," Aldwulf says.

His friend chips in with an aside to his companion, but an aside I am clearly meant to hear, "From the blush on her cheeks, I'd wager there was at least one who wanted to." And I realise that he is right: I am blushing. Béma, am I walking round in such a state that everyone can read my mind?

"Hah, you've changed your tune. Bunch of pansies, you said. Only half an hour ago, you claimed they only cared for buggery, and only lay with women to get an heir," Aldwulf snorts, then, remembering I am present, claps his hand over his mouth. A muffled murmur comes from behind his hand "Your pardon, my lady." I cannot help myself. I laugh out loud, partly at his embarrassment, and partly at the recollection of how far from the mark he is in this assessment, at least where one Gondorian is concerned. Then I remember Castamir's wife.

"Well, if the Lady of Gondor I met last night is anything to go by, some of the men at least would have every excuse to take refuge in buggery. Though I also met her husband, and I doubt any man would be willing to oblige him."

Aldwulf and Cynefrid look at me wide eyed, mouths agape, then all of a sudden burst into raucous laughter. Ioreth comes bustling over.

"What are you thinking of, to be making this dreadful din. The two of you, hush, for mercy's sake." She shoots me a look, clearly suspecting that I am in some way to blame for the commotion. Suitably chastened I bid the two farewell and continue my rounds with the water pitcher. From behind my back, I hear Cynefrid's voice.

"Well, whoever he is, he's a lucky sod, that particular Gondorian pansy."

"Aye," adds his friend, and I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to hear the next remarks, for their voices drop to whispers. "For if the look on her face is owt to go by, he may be a pansy, but he's no poofter. Not if he can make her smile like that."

"You keep it clean, lad. She's a lady. And the King's sister. And she killed a fucking wraith, so you don't want to piss her off."

"That's as maybe, but she's a healthy young woman too."

I blush scarlet, once again, and, torn between mortification and hysteria, feel laughter bubbling up inside me, threatening to burst out. I find I have to raise my hand to cover my face. Thank Béma Ioreth does not speak Rohirric.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I have lunch with Merry. He rises to his feet as I approach, and flings his arms round my waist, giving me a heartfelt hug. Then he apologises for being over familiar.

"Nonsense, my friend," I say, taking his arm and leading him back to the sunlit corner of the garden where he has been sitting.

"I am still reeling from the news," he says. "I don't think my mind can take it in. Frodo completed the quest. I think truthfully that until I saw the Eagle yesterday, part of me had thought it impossible that he could succeed. But he has – and has saved us all." Then his usually cheerful face clouds over. "But I do not yet know if he survived, or Sam... or Pippin."

"And likewise I await news of Éomer," I reply. "'Reeling from the news' exactly describes how I felt most of yesterday." We talk for some time of our absent friends, and try to work out how long it will take messengers to come from Cormallen to Minas Tirith with more detailed news. As Merry talks of the maps he has studied, my mind drifts. How I wish Faramir were here. He knows Ithilien like his own hand. He could tell us. Then I realise with a sense of amusement that my mind is playing tricks, finding any excuse to think of him. But Merry's voice draws my attention back, and I look to see he has drawn a sketch of a map in the dust with a stick. We argue for a while over the accuracy with which he has represented the distances involved, then come to the conclusion that late on the morrow is the soonest we can hope to hear of the fate of those we love so dearly. As we talk, we eat the meagre supply of food at our disposal.

Lunch eaten, I retire to my chamber for a rest. The maid has changed the bottom sheet (how I wonder whether she believed my explanation). But to my senses the pillow and coverlet still smell of Faramir, and I burrow beneath the covers, and, imagining that his arms still enfold me, I sink into a deep sleep. I wake a couple of hours later, with a slight headache. Fresh air will help, I decide. I draw my cloak about me and make my way into the garden.

At first I wander through the garden alone. And, without any obligation to talk to other people, I am free to think of Faramir. I look at the bench where we have spent so much time, and at the fountain before it, and I miss him. Béma, it has only been a matter of hours since I last saw him and I miss him with a pain that is almost physical. My mind is full of the memories of last night, memories which send the blood coursing round my body. I want him so desperately. But I do not just want to lie with him once more (though I want that very much indeed; I have only to shut my eyes and I can feel him inside me). I want to be with him, to have his company, to hear him recite poetry, or tease me, or comfort me. I sit on the bench, alone. It feels so strange not to have him next to me, not to be able to take sidelong glances at his profile when he is not looking. I shut my eyes and give myself to the dizzying, feverish feelings of want that seem to have taken my mind by storm.

I wonder what Faramir is thinking. The memory of his smile after our love making is burned into my memory. I imagine his arms around me. There is no doubt, no uncertainty in my mind; I know that he loves me. Then I remember him drawing his cloak over us, explaining that he knows what it means. I am seized with a mad, giddy desire to get up and dance around the garden. But at the same time I feel a sadness. I do not know when I will next see him. He warned me that he would be busy, that there was much to do to ensure the safety of his people. And once again I fall to thinking of how much I miss his presence.

Eventually, I open my eyes. I need to find something useful to do, or I will run mad. I get up and brush the creases out of my skirt, then set off back to the main body of the house. Just outside, seated on benches, I come upon a group of Rohirrim, those who are in better health. Amongst them is Cynefrid. Aldwulf I think must still be inside; he lost his leg in the battle and is still too weak to be moved. I see them take note of my approach.

"Hail, Eowyn, King's sister," says the nearest of them. I return the greeting.

"Will you not join us, lady?" says Cynefrid. I nod and sit down on one of the stone benches. At first their conversation is a bit stilted, hampered by my presence, but I sit quietly and listen, and gradually they relax. They talk of their homes, their wives and sweethearts, the harvests to be sewn and reaped in the coming year, the rebuilding to be done. And then more hesitantly, they talk of the war, of the horrors of battle, of the dreams and nightmares they suffer. Worst of all, the nightmares which come, not during the dark hours of night, but during broad daylight, forcing their way into bright sunlit thoughts with dark vividness. Cynefrid suddenly seems to remember I am there.

"Lady, you must think us cowards to be so beset by terrors, like small children," he says.

"Nay, grown men and brave ones, all of proven mettle in battle," I reply. "Or if you are cowards then so too am I, for I have both nightmares and daytime visions."

"I see the foes I slew, then the bodies of my brothers lying dead. And sometimes it seems to me that the two things get confused in my mind, and I start by slaying my foes, only to find that it is I who have killed my brothers," says one of the other riders.

"Aye, that too," I say. "In my dreams the other night I thought I killed the Wraith, then, as I withdrew my sword, it seemed to my mind that his face became that of the Lord Aragorn."

Several of the riders nod at this; it seems they are only too familiar with this sort of dream, and also with the waking nightmares which beset me. An older man, Aelfred, joins in.

"Sometimes I am in the middle of doing something – perhaps trying to eat – and my hand begins to shake so much I cannot continue."

A young rider, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, nods, then says, his voice hardly above a whisper, "I worry sometimes that I will... will lose control of myself."

Suddenly a memory comes to me. When I was but twelve or so summers, I was hiding from my tutor one day, in the hay loft of the stables in the garrison beside Edoras. I heard Éomer, Éothain and Elfhelm come back from exercising their horses, and they set to the task of grooming them. And as they worked, they began to talk. My brother Éomer had been on his first sortie against a band of orcs only a week before, and was worried he had not acquitted himself well, and Éothain and Elfhelm set to reassuring him.

Éothain spoke first. He told of an occasion in the tavern when his Éored had all been in their cups, and thus more open with one another thanks to the ale than they would perhaps have been at other times. He said that of the men there, some ten or so, nine of them admitted to having pissed or soiled themselves at some point in battle. And he asked Éomer what this told him. Éomer replied that he supposed that it told him that even the bravest felt fear, and that bravery lay in fighting on even when you felt fear.

Then I remember Elfhelm's words, delivered with the black humour typical of hardened warriors: 'Only in part lad, only in part. The more important lesson is that one of Éothain's men is a bloody liar!'

"My lady?" Cynefrid interrupts my train of thought.

"Sorry, I was wool-gathering," I say. "I suddenly remembered Lord Elfhelm talking about fear in battle, and saying that there were two types of soldier: those who had at some time pissed themselves with fright and those who lied about it."

A chuckle runs round the group as they acknowledge the truth of this story.

"Aye, that's about the measure of it," says Aelfred. We talk long into the afternoon, then eventually Ioreth comes with some of the healers and their assistants to help the men back indoors.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wake some time in the early hours. I have been dreaming again of the Pelennor fields. This time the Nazgûl wins, but he does not kill me, not straight away. He maims me; I know that I have taken a mortal wound, and I feel the life blood ebbing in agony from me. He forces me to watch as his steed despoils the body of Théoden. Then he throws back his head in laughter, harsh and chilling, like some hellish carrion bird, as the Rohirrim ride across the plain. Finally Eomer comes towards me. This time he sees me alive, but knows I am dying, and it is the last thing he sees, the last piece of knowledge, knowledge of failure and despair, for the Wraith cuts him down.

I lie, shaking, with tears running down my cheeks. Éomer, my Éomer. My mind knows he survived the Pelennor fields, but my feelings do not. And part of me is terrified, completely terrified, that this dream is a portent – that although he survived that battle, he has fallen at the Black Gates, alone, leagues and leagues from me. And I am not there to weep over his body, to hold it and sing his soul to the halls of our fathers, to see to his burial.

And the bed feels so cold and so empty. I want to get up and seek Faramir's company, the comfort he could bring. But something stops me – perhaps the knowledge that he is stretched near to breaking by the burdens of state and the political tensions surrounding him, perhaps the fear that we might be found out. Suddenly our own little world, captured within the narrow confines of the garden and our bed chambers, so precious and dear, blissfully separate from the real world, seems threatened by discovery. I flinch almost physically at the thought of Castamir holding our love up for inspection, like a blood-soiled sheet, and presenting it to the world at large as something sordid and dishonourable.

I am not sure how long I lie awake, mind churning uselessly. Eventually though my thoughts turn to the men I talked to in the afternoon. I wonder how many of them have been woken by nightmares tonight? Somehow the realisation that I am not alone in this finally calms my fevered mind, and I drift back off to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning I find myself struck down by melancholy. My happy delirium of the day before has gone, like morning sunlight chased away by dark rain clouds. Looking for something to fill my mind I go once more to the houses of the healing, but my mood is not improved to find Castamir's lady and her retinue moving among the soldiers of Gondor. Lothíriel follows in polite attendance. I head into the garden and find my small group of compatriots. But even there I am not safe, for like some Haradrim potentate deigning to pay attention to his bonded slaves, she condescends to join us.

"Lady Éowyn, what a pleasant surprise," she says, with a smile which does not reach her eyes.

"My lady," I reply, inclining my head just enough to do the right degree of honour to her station.

"I take it these brave men are Riders from your cavalry, wounded in battle," she says. At least she is going through the motions of giving them their due.

"Yes, my lady, those who are well enough to rise from their beds."

"I thought it would do well to come to visit the houses of healing, both to express the thanks of the City Council, and to raise morale. For my husband and the other Councillors have been working tirelessly to ensure that our dwindling supplies are replenished soon. Within the next day or so, fresh meat and vegetables should arrive in the citadel."

Once Cynefrid, who speaks some Westron, has translated, this announcement brings a hearty cheer from the assembled Riders.

"Yes, the Lord Steward and I were glad we could arrange these shipments from my home province," says Lothíriel, her voice a study in bland affability. Her usual diplomatic mask is in place, but I sense her underlying anger at the unsubtle attempt to appropriate credit to Castamir.

"Ah yes, the Lord Steward," says Castamir's lady. For the life of me I cannot remember the woman's name; in fact I cannot even remember if anyone told me it in the first place. She continues, "A pleasant enough young man. Well meaning too. When he is more versed in the running of the city, I am sure that he will, if he learns to take suitable guidance from those older and wiser heads on the council, fulfil his office admirably."

I stiffen at this, but fortunately, before I can interrupt with any ill-judged attempt to come to Faramir's defence, Lothíriel intervenes.

"I think you will find my cousin has more of a grasp on the responsibilities of his office than perhaps you realise, given his age. For he paid close attention to his father's work, and his military background has given him a keen understanding of the need for clear leadership." Lothíriel somehow manages to convey by her tone of voice the idea that Faramir is perfectly capable of running the city himself, while not actually saying so explicitly.

The Lady of Minas Tirith is not daunted by this. She tries a new tack, and I realise that she is not aiming her darts at Lothíriel. I am the target.

"Naturally, a gifted military leader can turn his hand to many things. But peacetime is a very different situation. Diplomacy is foremost, the cohesion of the nation must be cemented, external alliances forged. It is fortunate, is it not, that the young lord is a bachelor? For instance, there are the provinces of South Gondor, which have long been contested territory between ourselves and the Haradrim. Some sort of alliance, the forging of a close link with one of the noble families there, would seal their loyalty to Minas Tirith, as well as helping to subdue the Corsair attacks along the coast which have so bedevilled your province, do you not agree, Princess Lothíriel, Lady Éowyn? So fortunate he has not been so foolish as to publicly announce any prior entanglement."

Béma, the _bicce _is trying to get a rise out of me. And, with my mood of this morning and lack of sleep, I can feel my control slipping. Help comes from an unexpected quarter. Out of sight of Castamir's wife's shrewish gaze, Cynefrid places a hand on my elbow, as if gentling a horse. I get a grip on myself, and with what I hope is an air of disinterestedness Lothíriel herself would be proud of, manage a response.

"I am sure Lord Faramir will ever place the needs of his country and its people first."

The loathsome woman tries a few more half-hearted attempts to needle me, but eventually gives up, and she and her attendants sweep from the garden, Lothíriel casting a sympathetic glance over her shoulder as she tags along, presumably to be on hand should the woman's venom threaten to poison anyone unfortunate enough to get in her way. The Riders who do not speak the common tongue look at me with quizzical expressions. Cynefrid gives a broad grin, then speaks in Westron, presumably to spare me any more embarrassment.

"So that's your dancing partner, my lady? I've talked to some of the soldiers of Gondor and know of him by repute. You've chosen well." And for the first time this morning, I find myself smiling, smiling and blushing. He chuckles, then switches to Rohirric, "And that _lady_ would indeed drive any sane man to buggery if her bed were the only alternative."

**AN: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. They are much appreciated, and I'd especially like to thank the guest reviewers (who I cannot reply to by PM).**

**Cynefric and Aldwulf have certain prejudices which I would imagine would be part of their cultural background, but I don't share them!**

**The story about "one of them was lying" is taken from an account by a martial arts expert who trains US Navy Seals. Losing control of one's bodily functions is a very well documented and common response to being under fire, even with trained soldiers.**

_**Bicce – **_**old English: bitch.**


	11. Evensong

**Chapter 11: Evensong  
**

**Disclaimer: not mine.**

**Thanks once more to Lady Peter for reading parts of this (and the last) chapter, and making very helpful suggestions.**

After lunch I snatch a couple of hours rest. I can no longer smell Faramir on the bed, and feel lost without his scent on the pillows. Rising, I go out to the garden where I come upon Merry, and we go up to the walls to walk together.

"You seem rather subdued today, my lady," Merry says.

"Yes, I think the euphoria of yesterday, the feeling that I had finally come to accept that we had won, has rather passed, and now I just feel very tired." I cannot explain about Faramir, about the heady feelings of yesterday, and the melancholy that has set in today. Béma, I miss him. If Castamir's wife can wreak such havoc in my mind just by visiting the sick, what evil is her husband engaged in within the much more exalted realms of the council chamber?

"I hope that we will both feel better when news arrives from Cormallen."

"That is, if it is good news," I say.

Merry takes hold of my hand and clasps it between his. "We must hope that it is."

We walk for a while along the wall, glancing out over the Pelennor fields from time to time. Eventually, as the sun begins to set behind the citadel, and the shadows of Mount Mindolluin lengthen across the plain, our patience is rewarded. Three horsemen gallop towards the city. From our lofty vantage point, we watch as the messengers ride. In the distance they seem so small, and the plain so vast that their progress seems agonisingly slow, but eventually they reach the city gates. We hurry from the walls down to the houses of healing, where we seek out the Warden.

He shows us into his study, where we try to wait as best we can. Merry sits by the table, with a scrap of parchment which he alternately crumples, then smooths out on the desk. I pace up and down. The Warden simply looks awkward. Eventually one of the city guard, in his surplice bearing the emblem of the white tree and stars, arrives. He bows, and hands us folded and sealed sheets of velum.

Hands trembling, I break the seal on the one addressed to me. For a moment, my eyes will not focus, then I almost collapse with relief when I manage to make out Éomer's familiar, untidy hand.

_Éowyn, my dearest sister, you will already have heard of our victory..._

The words blur as my eyes fill with tears, and I sink to my knees.

"My Lady, I am sorry. Have you lost close kin?" the Warden says, his voice full of worry.

"Nay," I say, smiling through my tears. "My brother lives. It is he who has sent this letter. I am just overcome by relief."

The Warden crouches down beside me and offers a linen cloth, and I wipe my eyes.

"Should I send for a calming tisane?" he asks.

"No," I say, managing to stem the flow of tears. "I think I will be fine." I get to my feet and make my way to a chair, where I sit, heavily, then read the rest of the letter. "Éothain, Elfhelm, they are alive." My heart though, is saddened by the long list of the dead, good men, too many to mention. Then I remember Merry, sitting by the table, and glance at him. He gives me a dazzling smile.

"They're all alive – Frodo, Sam and Pippin. And Strider, Legolas and Gimli too. Though Frodo has lost his ring finger."

The Warden looks at us kindly. "I shall arrange for food to be sent here, if the two of you would join me in taking your evening meal with me." And so the three of us end up dining modestly on bread and meat, with a flagon of wine. I help myself to a second draught, hoping it will send me to sleep, and sure enough, when I return to my chamber, I fall into bed and sleep like one who has not seen rest for weeks.

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The next morning I sleep late, my body and mind finally giving way with the release of tension. I find my melancholy has if anything increased. With the passing days, the memory of my night with Faramir is increasingly coming to feel like some sort of flight of fancy, some unreal dream. I miss him terribly. And, at the back of my mind, I feel the first stirrings of doubt. I threw myself at the poor man. What if he now regrets our liaison, but is too principled to know how to extricate himself? I shake myself. No, I cannot be mistaken, I know that he loves me. And I know only too well the complexities of the political situation he is trying to handle. Small wonder he has no time to find me. Not to mention the fact that his enemies probably watch him like a hawk; he cannot afford to be seen with me.

I take the copy of Ecthelion's _Art of War _which I borrowed from him, and go to the stone bench by the fountain. But I cannot concentrate. My eyes slide sightlessly over the sentences, and I take nothing in. Realising the futility of the task, I take Éomer's letter from my pocket, and read it yet again. He asks me to go to Cormallen, to join in the celebrations, and it occurs to me that I should pen a reply to thank him for the invitation, but let him know that I do not yet feel up to the journey. I stare into the distance, my cloak – his gift – pulled tight round me. I feel warm, and the spot is pleasantly sheltered. The spring sun has just enough warmth in it, and I begin to doze off.

"Eowyn?" Faramir's voice is quiet, but still sufficient to rouse me from my sleep. "You will catch cold, sleeping out here in the garden." My eyes fly open, and for the first time in what seems an age, I look on his face. My heart feels like it has leapt from my breast and taken flight, soaring high above. He sits down beside me, his eyes looking at me with a soft expression, a smile full of light and love on his lips, his expression a mirror of my feelings. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, dipping his head and kissing me. Our kisses are tender and undemanding to start with, for I am still disoriented from waking. Eventually, Faramir lifts his head and looks into my eyes.

"I love you, my White Lady of Rohan," he whispers.

"And I love you, my Lord of Gondor," I say. I reach up and stroke the short beard on his cheek, and in return, he runs his hand through my hair.

"I have missed you these last days, more than you can imagine." His voice catches, husky with emotion.

"I know full well how much, for I have missed you," I answer.

With a smile on his face, he gets to his feet, and holds out his hand. I take it, and he helps me to my feet. Together, we walk along the path hand-in-hand, before he leads me up to the walls.

He looks at me with a teasing expression in his eyes, then asks the question to which he already knows the answer. "Why do you tarry here, and not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen where your brother awaits you?"

I smile back at him, and say "Do you not know?"

"Two reasons there may be, but which is true..." He is teasing me, and I tell him off for playing at riddles. He gives me a grin, and raises his eyebrows. "Well, as a scholar, I must consider all possibilities. It could be of course that only your brother called for you, and to look on the Lord Aragorn in his triumph would bring you no joy."

"Do not tease," I say, becoming serious. "Yes, once, I did wish for his love, but not for any man's pity. But no longer."

Faramir looks at me with his grey eyes, full of understanding. "That I know. You desired his love, because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory. As a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is."

I look into his eyes, a steady gaze, waiting for him to continue.

"I do not offer you pity," he says. "For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten, and you are beautiful, beyond even the words of the Elven-tongue to tell. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still would I love you. Éowyn, do you not love me?"

I smile at him. "You know that I love you, love you more than I thought it possible to love anyone."

Even if I had not already realised the depth of my love for him, I think I would do so at this instant. I feel the sun shining on me.

"Behold, the shadow has departed," I say, taking his hands. Then I glance up at him, and I can see that he knows that I am teasing, and add "I will become a healer, and be a shieldmaiden no longer. I will not vie with the great Riders."

Faramir smiles. "And will you also stay away from your horse? No longer join in sword play when your arm has healed? For I was looking forward to sparring with you, to racing across the fields on horseback with you. Must I learn instead to look forward to you bringing me garlands of flowers and embroidering my shirts?" He puts on a look of mock disappointment.

I laugh at this. How well he knows me. But then I turn serious once more, and gaze into his grey eyes.

"No longer do I desire to be a queen."

Now it is Faramir's turn to laughs merrily at my words, and at my sudden solemnity. "That is well, for I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And we will dwell together and make a garden in fair Ithilien."

I move a little closer to him, and look up at him, smiling and whispering, "Would you have your proud folk say of you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman of Gondor to choose?'" He looks back at me, his face a mixture of love and desire.

"I would." And suddenly his arms are round me, and his mouth is on mine, hot with need, his tongue probing and tangling with my own, his body hard against mine. Part of me knows that we stand on the walls where half the city can see us, but Faramir seems not to care. With one hand he pulls me close, with the other he runs his fingers through my hair. We cling to one another, our kiss hot with the memory of our shared passion and the promise of what is to come. Eventually we part, and he traces the shape of my face with his hand, then takes my hand and leads me down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs, we meet the Warden, who looks somewhat stunned. Faramir informs him with his most serious look (and with the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitching with the effort not to laugh) that I am now healed, and the warden stumbles out some words to the effect that he releases me from his care. I smile with joy, and tell him that I would like to remain, for of all dwellings, this now seems to me the most blessed.

The Warden sketches a bow and makes a rather hasty retreat. As soon as he has gone, Faramir pulls me into another embrace, his hands sliding from my waist to my arse, pressing my hips against him, kissing me as though we were alone behind locked doors. Suddenly, a rather theatrical cough comes from behind us, and Faramir jumps back almost as though he has been stung. I turn to see Lothíriel laughing heartily.

"Well, cousin, you have certainly made your intentions known to the whole city. A kiss like that: I would wager few of the lords of the city share such kisses with their wives even within the privacy of their own chambers. And the two of you as yet unwed. You had best be prepared for the King of Rohan to come after your head! And worse still, the strong possibility of raised eyebrows in the next meeting of the Council."

"I will have Éowyn as my wife, and may Morgoth take any who disapprove, starting with that bastard Castamir," Faramir says, with force, almost growling at Lothíriel in his annoyance. I realise with surprise that this is the first time I have heard him swear.

"Peace, Fara," Lothíriel laughs once more. "No harm has been done. Quite the contrary in fact. You always were naïve about politics. For you think it is about doing the right thing, when it is about doing the expedient thing; that it is about carrying the will of the people by the rationality of your arguments, when it is about swaying their passions with the strength of your rhetoric. And yet, and yet... that is the very thing about you which makes you quite unwittingly better at this game than Castamir.

"For every man and woman in the city has at least one soldier in their family, more usually, so they know of your reputation as a skilled, fair, brave and honourable captain. And they know that in your civil leadership, you are scrupulously honest and just, and that your justice is tempered by mercy. And as for you, White Lady of Rohan," she says, sketching a slight bow towards me, "the wandering minstrels and ballad singers already sing of you and your fight with the Wraith in their songs, in the market places and taverns. So to see the two of you embrace is to them like the right and proper ending of some ancient song. And to see you embrace with such... such enthusiasm. Well, they will like you all the more, coz, for the knowledge that the blood runs hot in your veins. Had you continued to meet Éowyn clandestinely as though there was something to be ashamed of, then Castamir would have had his ammunition. But to declare yourself so publicly – you have well and truly sunk him."

Faramir looks more than a little stunned by this encomium. I laugh, then, thinking of her comment about 'hot blood' being an admirable trait, tell them of my conversation with Cynefric and Aldwulf. Lothíriel joins me in laughing.

"That smile of yours was something to behold. I will not enquire what, precisely, my cousin did to put it on your face." It strikes me that Lothíriel, at least in matters of theory if not in practical matters, is no where near as innocent as her aunt might hope.

Faramir looks extremely sheepish, then says wryly, "So that is the Rohirric summation of my character: a pansy but not a poof." At this I cannot help myself – I stand on tiptoe and brush a fond but relatively chaste kiss across his lips.

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Lothiriel, Faramir and I share supper. To my delight, the first of Lothíriel's shipments has arrived, and it seems to me we have a veritable feast spread before us. It is more food than any of us has seen in weeks: meat, fresh vegetables, goat's cheese, fruit. As we eat, Faramir tells us of the affairs of state that have kept him occupied from dawn till late into the night for the last two days. He has had to struggle at ever turn. Each plan he has advanced for sending provisions to the army, for husbanding the resources of the city, has been met by a counter suggestion of Castamir's. Not that Castamir's have been better. In fact, most have not even been practicable in the slightest; the man has suggested them simply to undermine Faramir's efforts. And all the while he has been diverting discussions into the minutiae of constitutional law at every opportunity. Faramir says wearily that he now thinks he has read every single line of every single law pertaining to the restoration of the line of kings and the procedures for ensuring the legitimacy of claims to the throne.

"You are weary, coz," says Lothíriel. "You should go to your bed. Surely, now the first of the supply ships have arrived and provisions have been sent to Cormallen, you are allowed a night's rest. And I too am tired. I think, by your leave, that I will retire." She smiles at both of us, and rises, kissing Faramir on the cheek before she leaves.

Once she is gone, Faramir looks at me, and raises his eyebrows.. "Lothíriel is usually more subtle than that. Though I suppose it is possible that perhaps she genuinely is tired." He stands, and holds out his hand to me, smiling.

"Come, Éowyn, let us follow Lothíriel's example." Sudden fire floods through me as I take his meaning. I take his hand and let him draw me to him. He slides his hands round my hips, pulling my body close against his, and kisses me, a slow, deliberate kiss that builds in heat. Eventually our lips part. "I think, my love, that my chamber is nearer," he whispers. Hand in hand we make our way along the narrow corridor to his room. It seems to me that I can feel the heat of his body across the narrow gap between us. He pauses at the door.

"Éowyn, you need not come in if you do not wish. If you feel that the other night was precipitate, that we were carried away by the moment, I will wait for our wedding night," he whispers.

I lean close to him and murmur in his ear, "Hush, my foolish, my oh too noble, far too principled wretch. Hush and take me to bed."

At that, Faramir wraps one arm round me while he lifts the latch with the other, and we stumble through the door into his chamber. He can barely let go of me long enough to drop the bar on the door, and somehow, bodies melded together, we make it across the room to the bed. The strangest thing is that I feel curiously embarrassed. Why this should be, when we have already lain together I do not know. Faramir seems to sense my confusion.

"Éowyn, love, are you sure about this?" he asks.

"Nay, it is just that I am being ridiculous. For I feel shy, shy in a way that I did not the last time." I bury my head against his chest, and beneath my cheek, I feel his gentle laughter.

"Where is my bold woman of the north, whose eyes ranged so freely over me the other morning?" he whispers, his voice at one and the same time warm with amusement, yet rough with desire. And somehow this reminder is enough – my mind floods with the image of his lean body, slender yet muscular, and with the memory of his arousal, and I raise my face and press my lips against his. I feel his hands at the back of my dress, unlacing it, and only moments later he loosens his grip on me for a moment, allowing space for his hands to slide it over my body until it drops to the ground. Then I busy myself with the clasps on his tunic, but one-handed I don't seem to make much progress.

"Damn this arm," I say. "Much as I want to return the favour and undo your clothes, I don't think I can."

"In good time," Faramir whispers, then trails kisses down the side of my neck. His hands slide down my sides and over my hips. He reaches down to the bottom of my shift, and drops to his knees before me. Gradually he eases it up, trailing kisses over each inch of exposed skin in turn as he gets back to his feet, up my leg, over my hips, up my belly, easing the thin fabric over my breasts and taking my nipple into his mouth. I tremble, partly with desire, partly with cold, and Faramir looks up at me, a possessive smile on his face.

"Get into the bed before you freeze," he says. As I slip beneath the coverlet, he starts to take his own clothes off, looking me in the eyes as he does so. Unlike the other morning, when he was half way through gathering his clothes before he noticed my scrutiny, this time he is aware from the outset that I am drinking in every inch of his body as he undresses, and he gazes back with a single-minded intensity, a knowing assurance of his power over me, that takes my breath away. Then he lifts the covers and climbs into the bed beside me, his skin hot and silken as it makes contact with mine. And I moan as I slip my arm around his back, and wrap my legs around him, welcoming him.

I have spent hours while we spun and sewed listening to the older women talk of their husbands, and of the arts and tricks of lovemaking – Rohir women are not shrinking violets. So I know that some women have a marked preference for a lot of wooing. But this, I am rapidly coming to realise, is not my way. I want Faramir with a desperation born of nearly three days of re-running our previous encounter in my head. He starts by kissing me gently and stroking my shoulder. I respond by running my hand down his back, cupping his buttocks, and pulling his hard length against me. Faramir makes a noise half way between a gasp of surprise and a groan of desire, then raises his head to look at me, eyes dark with lust.

"Impatient, my lady?" he says, his breath hot against my cheek.

"I want you," I answer, then bring my hand back to tangle in his hair and pull his head down to mine for a kiss. And that seems invitation enough, thank Béma. Hand cradling my arse, he pushes inside me. This time there is no pain, only the most incredible feeling of fullness. Then he begins to move to and fro, slowly, marvellously. He raises himself up, and his grey eyes, filled with so much love, look into mine as he moves, burying his cock within me with each thrust. I reach up and stroke his cheek with my fingers. The physical pleasure is almost beyond bearing, but more than that, the look on his face and the sense of being one that seems to flow through both of us threatens to undo me completely. Overcome with the intensity, I shut my eyes, then feel his mouth on mine, his tongue slipping inside as I moan. Together we move, our rhythm building until everything around me is lost in an explosion of heat and pleasure.

As I gradually come back to my senses, I realise that once more Faramir has spent himself outside me, and as he reaches for a cloth, I find myself saying the words before I have thought things out fully.

"I wish you would spill your seed inside me."

"You know that I cannot. I do not know how long it will be before we can marry, and I do not wish to dishonour you," he says. Then he looks at me, his eyes filled with a strange yearning. "Why do you wish it?"

"Because I want to feel you lose yourself completely within me. Because I want all of you."

I feel him tremble against me. "Do not tempt me, my love. You have no idea how much I want to..."

"Want to lose yourself within me?"

"Yes, that, and..." He ducks his head against my shoulder, and I feel his lips trace their way along my collar bone.

"And?" I ask. He lifts his head and looks at me, with those grey eyes that say so much. I thought I had already seen them filled to the brim with desire and want. But now I see depths that I had not even imagined.

"I want to spill my seed but also... I would plant my seed. To know that you will bear my child. To feel your belly swell beneath my hand." Heart feeling as though it will burst with joy, I reach up and tangle my fingers in his hair, drawing him in for a kiss. And then with a smile, he slides down my body, and traces the curve of my belly with his lips, then kisses and nibbles his way back over my skin until he can bring his mouth down on mine. And this time I find that now my initial hunger has been sated, there is indeed much to be said for a long, languid, slow wooing, building our passion before we come together for a second time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"No, no..." I wake to hear Faramir's voice beside me, full of pain. I move against him in the dark, and stroke his cheek, realising that he is crying out in his sleep. Gradually he wakes, gasping for breath and trembling against my body.

"Hush, love, you are safe," I whisper, and draw his head close against me, cradling him against my breast. I stroke the soft curls beneath my hand, and feel a dampness against my skin. I realise he is weeping, silently. I make shushing noises and throw my leg over his, trying to wrap him up and keep him safe. Gradually, the trembling begins to subside.

"Do you want to tell me about your dream?" I whisper again.

"No." His voice is very quiet, little more than a breath against my breast.

I kiss the top of his head, tiny, gentle kisses, and cradle his head, then move my hand down to stroke his back, hand moving across his back between his shoulder blades.

"I love you," I murmur. I feel Faramir's hands move up to my shoulders, and he clings to me. And then I just hold him close to me, and we lie in silence until gradually I feel his body relax and his breathing slow as he slips back into sleep. What was his dream, I wonder, that he could not tell me? I knew, that night when we sat in the kitchen and talked through the dark hours, the lonely hours which fill the soul with the darkest melancholy, that he too suffered from nightmares. But to hear him cry out, to feel him weep upon my breast – I am pierced with an aching need to comfort him, to make all well.

Gradually, as I lie with him against me, the ache subsides. I realise that it is enough to know that I am here to hold him when he has night terrors, just as he is here to hold me when it is my turn to suffer. Perhaps he will tell me in the morning, perhaps he will not. It matters not. All that really matters is that I can comfort him as he comforts me. And in time we will both heal. Not without scars, for no mortal heals without scars. But the scars will be part of us, and we will love each other despite them.

I hold him still as he sleeps, and feel as though I am washed away by waves of love for him, washed away across a wide ocean to some distant shore. Maybe that distant shore is Valinor. Perhaps my love is so great that it carries the echo of the undying lands. I want to keep him safe, to make the world a gentle place for him, my gentle love. He is a man of such paradox, such complexity. A warrior whose courage is unmatched, a soldier others would follow to the death, a man whose strength will always be mine, who would protect me to his dying breath, and yet so gentle, so compassionate. And I wonder how there could ever have been a time when I did not love him. And I marvel at the good fortune that he should love me in return. Truly I am the luckiest woman ever to have lived.

**Thank you again for the reviews – it is good to know that there are people enjoying reading this story.**


	12. Rohirric Dances

**Chapter 12: Rohirric dances.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**With many thanks to Lady Peter for her hard work in beta-ing this.**

Cynefrid greets me with a friendly smile as I approach the group of Riders sunning themselves on the benches in the garden.

"How are you this morning, my lady? And how is your dancing partner?" he says with a twinkle.

"I am well, thank you," I say, deciding to pretend I have not noticed the second question.

I look at the group before me. One sits cross-legged on the ground, sketching shapes in the dust with a stick, while three or four others look on with interest.

"I'd normally stand up to reach that bit," says one. I notice he sits on a bench, with the bandaged stump of his left leg sticking out, a cushion by his side to keep him upright.

"Perhaps some sort of pulley and cord could be used," says one of the others. The draughtsman brushes away part of the sketch and adjusts it.

"That might just work," says the man with the missing leg. "But I think you'd need to move that piece so it doesn't foul the pulley." And again, pieces of the drawing are rubbed out and replaced. I watch in fascination, realising that they are adjusting the design of a loom. Eventually they have got the design to their liking.

"Perhaps I could get you some parchment to copy this," I suggest, hesitantly, for I do not wish to interrupt their labours.

"Parchment, my lady? That would be grand. But where would you get that?" says the draughtsman. In Rohan, parchment is a rare and expensive commodity.

"Oh, I'm sure she'll find some somewhere," says Cynefrid with a broad grin.

Gradually the men's conversation turns to more general things: families back home, horses, whether the Eastfold or Westfold grows the best hops to use for brewing. I settle in the spring sunshine, and let their conversation wash over me, feeling relaxed and happy. How strange it is to feel happy. It has been so long. Suddenly a fear grips me. Perhaps this tenuous state is only temporary. Perhaps it will elude my grasp just as I try to tighten my fingers on it. After so long dwelling beneath the shadows of darkness, I worry that my luck cannot have changed so completely. Or, worse, if I am indeed offered a genuine chance of a new life, that perhaps my own demons will trample the vulnerable shoots of hope.

"My lady," says Cynefrid, quietly. "Don't let yourself fall into the megrims." How has he read my mind, I wonder. Then it hits me; I know he suffers from the same demons. We all of us suffer from the same demons.

Cynefrid and I fall into conversation together. I ask him of his family.

"I have a wife, Hereswið, and a son and daughter, Swidhelm and Torctgyd. They're eight and six years old," he tells me. It occurs to me that they are not much different in age from... I wonder what words to use. Faramir's wards? His step children?

"I'm glad Swidhelm was not old enough to be expected to fight," Cynefrid continues. "I hope one day he'll be a Rider like me, but not as a child. Some of the lads that fought and fell at Helm's Deep, they were only eleven, twelve. That's not right."

I shake my head. "And yet I wanted to fight and they made me cower in a cave with the women."

"Mind you, if Hereswið had wanted to fight, I think we'd have had words. I'd have wanted her safe in the cave with the children," Cynefrid responds. He gives me a side-long look to see how I take this. At first I feel annoyed. Yet another man who wants to keep his womenfolk in a cage.

"Are women less brave than men, then?" I ask bitterly, fist clenching by my side.

"Nay, lady, I would never say that to you of all women. I value my neck far too much," Cynefrid chuckles. "And I could never doubt Hereswið's bravery. She has been brought to bed with child thrice – sadly our youngest was stillborn – and she is as likely to die then as I am riding into battle. But it is not right for both of us to risk our lives in battle when the children need to be looked after."

"Yet chance might still leave them orphans," I reply.

Cynefrid looks at me. He is from near Aldburg and must surely know that my parents died when I was not much older than his children are now. "I'm sorry, my lady. I spoke out of turn."

"No, it was a long time ago now. But chance can leave children orphaned. Why should a woman not wish to fight for her family's future the way a man can?"

Cynefrid sighs. "I think, my lady, you may feel differently when you have your own children."

I snort with annoyance. This talk of valour in childbirth is a double edged sword. For it allows that women can be brave, but places such limitations on how they are allowed to display their bravery. Perhaps fortunately our conversation is interrupted by the bell for the midday meal. One of the Riders asks if I would care to join them, and I happily agree.

Over lunch we start to talk of the state Rohan will be in when we return. We tally up the losses in the battle on the Pelennor Fields, and I add what I know of the losses from the Field of Cormallen. Many villages will be hard pressed to find enough men for the heavy work of farming in the coming summer, and without that, those who are left will starve in the winter. Add to that the fact that many villages in the West were razed to the ground by Saruman's Uruk Hai, and the prospects look bleak.

I find myself thinking of Faramir and Lothíriel's conversation last night. They spent a lot of time discussing how best to use the food and supplies as they arrived, which consignments should be forwarded to the army at Cormallen, and which districts of the city here had been hardest hit (mainly the two outermost circles which had borne the brunt of the attack when the gates were breached). They discussed not just food for the short term, but the need for timber to mend houses, how best to organise carpenters and stonemasons, what work needed skilled guildsmen and what could be delegated to casual labourers. And it strikes me that their organisational skills would have been for naught had it not been for detailed information as to the state of the city, and the dispatches Faramir received from the front telling him of troop numbers, numbers of casualties and the sad tally of the fallen. I mull over these thoughts for a few moments before I speak.

"We need to find out exactly what state the various settlements are in. Then we can organise repairs, send people to help with the villages which have been hardest hit," I say.

"How would we do that, my lady? Can Éomer King spare the troops to make a tour of the country?" asks Cynefrid. "After all, there's still trouble with the Dunlanders, and bands of orcs from the mountains." At this point, a young man, Edric, who was Cynefrid's second-in-command in battle, adds his thoughts.

"I've been talking, well as much as I can, for my Westron isn't good, to some of the lads from Gondor. They say they have this, damn, I can't remember the name," says Edric, brows knitting in frustration, before continuing, "Anyway, every few years the scribes collect details of how many folk there are in each village, how much livestock, how much land is under pasture or set for crops, who owns it, who rents it, that sort of thing. And they write it all down. Seemed to me like a load of bothersome busy-bodies sticking their noses where they weren't wanted, leastways, that's what I thought when they told me. But I suppose it could be useful if you want to know where to start with repairs."

"You are right, Edric," I reply. "And although I'm sure my brother would not want to spare a whole Éored, he could spare a smaller group, to accompany a scribe. I would be happy to oversee such a group – I have no intention of shutting myself up in my solar with an embroidery frame while the country goes to rack and ruin."

We start a discussion about the broad outlines of what such a task would involve – the high moorland areas in the north where sheep are pastured, the more fertile regions of the south where barley grows, the timber resources, and how to take what is needed for rebuilding without destroying the coppices. It is several hours into this discussion when we are interrupted by Lothíriel.

"Have you seen my cousin, Éowyn? I am worried that he has missed luncheon, and he is overworking when his body should still be given time to recover from its injuries."

"Nay," I reply, "He has not been here. You are right, though, he needs to eat."

"My guess is that he is in his study. Perhaps you can persuade him – here's a jar of fruit I got from the latest shipment. Really he needs something more substantial, but this might be a start." She holds out an earthenware jar to me, and I take it, rising to my feet.

"You go and see to your dancing partner, my lady," says Cynefrid with a grin.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Clutching the earthenware pot, I knock on the door to Faramir's study. From within, he calls out to enter, and I open the door. The room is spacious, with a desk and bookcases, a couple of chairs, and (I am relieved to see) a fire burning warmly in the grate. A wide window looks out to the west, and the walls are hung with tapestries of woodland scenes.

"Éowyn," Faramir says, with a smile. He is seated at a desk which is spread with papers and parchments, higgledy piggledy. Some are clearly sheets of accounts and ledgers, others appear to be catalogues and ships' manifests. He rises from the chair and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around me, claiming my mouth with his own. I manage to put down my burden on a corner of a nearby table, then wrap my arm round his neck, and kiss him back, hard.

"Lothíriel gave me these to bring to you. She was worried you had missed your meal again. I think it's a jar of peaches." I look warily at the cluttered desk. "We had best not open it near your desk. Not unless you want all your papers covered with syrup." The rest of the room seems no better. Every surface – the tops of the bookcases, the low table by the window, even the seats of the chairs – is covered with papers and stacks of books leaning at dangerous angles. Faramir follows my gaze and grins cheerfully.

"I am not a tidy person. But, even if it does not look that way, I know where everything is, even amid the chaos. I fear, though, that we will have to picnic upon the floor." And he sits down cross-legged on the edge of the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth. I join him there, tucking my legs under me, and place the jar on the floor between us. Faramir gets out his dagger and neatly cuts open the wax seal round the cork stopper. He uses the point to fish a peach-half from the sticky liquid, and offers it to me. I take it, almost dropping the slippery morsel, and take a bite. Even after our feast of the other night, when the first of the supply ships arrived, weeks of fatty stew, dry bread, mouldy cheese and shrivelled apples have left me craving food. This seems to me the most amazing, delicious, decadent thing I have ever tasted. Too late I realise that it is also an extremely messy thing; I now have syrup dripping down my chin in a most unladylike manner. I also find I have no handkerchief, and wipe my chin on the back of my hand. Still, I have a reputation as a barbarian shieldmaiden to defend. Faramir smiles, then offers me his own handkerchief, before spearing a chunk of peach for himself.

In almost complete silence, we devour half the jar. Almost: the quiet is punctuated by little murmurs of contentment from both of us. It makes me feel as though we are a couple of naughty children who have stolen some honey cakes from the cooling rack in the kitchen while the cook's back was turned. Inevitably, one of the pieces slides from my grasp to land on my skirt. Faramir sets his dagger to one side and reaches out. I feel the brush of his hand against my leg as he picks the peach up, then slowly and deliberately, he raises it to my lips.

I open my mouth, and he pops the peach inside, his long fingers touching my lips as he does so. I cannot help myself; I lick the syrup from his fingers with my tongue. And all the while, we look straight into one another's eyes. His lips part slightly, and I see him run the tip of his tongue across his lower lip as if to mirror the motions of mine against his fingers. His pupils are wide, making his grey eyes as dark as a stormy sea. I feel my breath catch, as though there is not enough air in the room. Placing his hand on the rug beside me, Faramir leans towards me, gradually bringing his face closer, never breaking his gaze. His fingers trail across my lips, then he places them lightly against my cheek. Then, very gently, his mouth meets mine. Almost tentatively, he gives me the softest of kisses, then a second, then a third. I lift my hand to touch the stubble on his cheek, pressing my lips against the softness of his.

"Éowyn," he murmurs against my lips, and I murmur his name in return. He slips his tongue gently against mine, caressing me. He tastes of peaches and syrup. My hand slides along his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard, then the softness of his hair as I tangle my fingers in the loose, dark curls. His hand in turn cradles the back of my head, and we are lost in the sensuality of lips, tongues, mouths, hot breath mingling with hot breath. There is passion, and languor too. But there is no desperate clash of mouths, at least not to start with. We take our time, exploring, nipping, tugging at each other's lips, tongues exploring one another.

Somewhere in the course of this exploration, I find he has lifted me astride his lap. And in an instant, our mood changes from languid to frenetic. His hands start to tug at my skirts, lifting them up round my waist, my hand starts to unlace his breeches, shoving the fabric down his legs. Within moments I sink onto his hard length, and we move together, hot skin against hot skin, his hands holding my hips, my hand clutching his shoulder. His lips are on mine, his tongue against mine, and all I can hear is the way we gasp for breath. I am swept away by the urgency, the need, the heat filling me completely. I taste the salt, metallic tang of blood – our kisses are so desperate one of us has bitten the other's lip, but whose lip it is I cannot tell. Then exquisite, excruciating pleasure breaks over me. I feel as if I am enveloped in a velvet darkness, stars before my eyes, and I sag against him, limp, unable to hold my body up. We sink together down onto the floor, aware of nothing beyond our ragged breathing and the pounding of our hearts. Eventually I manage to roll off him, to lie by his side, head against his shoulder.

"I didn't even think to bar the door," says Faramir. He sounds as stunned as I feel.

"I never knew that desire could be so strong," I say.

Faramir rolls onto his side to look into my face, his eyes fixed on mine. "Nor I."

"But you have loved other women," I say, in wonder.

"Not like this. Not as I feel for you." He threads his fingers through my hair and kisses me, a kiss that feels like we are melting into one another and becoming one. He strokes my cheek with his fingertips. Then he smiles. "And I have never before even thought to make love on the floor of my study," he says, his smile broadening into a grin.

This turn of phrase makes me giggle. "'Making love' sounds like something Mardil of Lossarnach would say. And he would use it for a gentler activity which took place in some flower-strewn bower. I think we Rohirrim would probably use cruder words for what we've just done."

Slowly, Faramir lets his hand drift from my cheek, down my neck, along my collar bone to my shoulder. Then he traces the neckline of my dress, just touching the skin, before sliding his hand down over my breast, ducking his head to follow his hand.

"Mmm, what would you call it?" he says, his voice muffled as his mouth nuzzles between my breasts. Then he lifts his face to mine, brushing his lips against my cheek, his breath warm against my skin.

"Well, the Rohir in me wants to describe it as a hard, fast, utterly glorious..." I pause, looking at his face, wondering whether to say the word.

"Utterly glorious... what?"

I put my lips against his ear, kissing the skin there, and whisper, "Fuck." I feel Faramir tense as I say the word, hear his sharp intake of breath, sense the desire this word unleashes in him. In response, his hand cups my breast, and his thumb and fingers tease my nipple through the fabric of my bodice. I give a little moan, before managing to continue. "But since I am in Gondor, I must express myself more properly. Perhaps in the language of scholarship, since my lover is a renowned scholar." I pause as Faramir's fingers continue their delicious labours. "Oh... That's not fair... How am I supposed to frame a finely poised turn of phrase while you do that to me..." His lips nuzzle against the angle where my neck meets my shoulder. I throw back my head, and groan. How can he arouse me again, so soon? But I am not going to be beaten so easily. I try my best to imitate the pompous language I have heard the old men of the court use.

"For, my lord, it is unworthy of your scholarship to take refuge in softening euphemisms. You fall short of your usual linguistic precision... Oh sweet Elbereth..." For his tongue has now traced a hot liquid trail down my skin and his lips leave hot kisses along the edge of my bodice. Then abruptly, he lifts his head, and I give a little whimper at the loss of the sensation.

Faramir's grey eyes sparkle with amusement, and his voice is like honey as he whispers, "My lady, tonight in bed, I promise I shall show you just what levels of linguistic precision a scholar like myself can attain."

"What, all talk and no action?" I tease. "Will it be poetry in Sindarin or Quenya? Or a discourse on the finer points of Ecthelion?" Though in truth, for all I care, he can recite whatever he wants, so long as his fingers and lips continue with their task.

"Ah, your enthusiasm makes me forget your inexperience," he says with a grin, knowing, mischievous, desirous. "For, my sweet love, you mistake my meaning completely."

"And your meaning is?" I ask.

"Patience, my lady, patience. All will become clear. There will indeed be action, and my actions will make my words clear." His eyes glitter with dangerous promise.

"And now you are teasing me," I say, my words catching in my throat as I look at the naked want on his face.

"I know," he answers. Then he cuts off further conversation by kissing me once more.

We are interrupted by a knock on the door.

"My Lord?" It is the voice of his lieutenant. "The Lord Turgon awaits you."

In a low voice, Faramir says something which I take to be an oath in his own tongue, words which, unaccountably, my tutor did not teach me.

"Just one moment, Beregond." He kisses me, then stands up, hastily lacing his breeches and tucking his shirt back in, before pulling on a formal robe. He reaches down and helps me to my feet, then whispers, "Let yourself out when you think we are out of sight."

I brush the unruly strands of hair back from his face, and he kisses me quickly. "Until tonight, my lady of Rohan," he whispers, before grabbing a large bundle of papers and leaving.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I manage to return to my room without seeing anyone, and with a bit of a struggle, unlace the dress (fortunately the dress the maid brought me this morning laces down the sides). With a growing sense of embarrassment, I realise how creased it is, and also that it bears quite a few stains which probably do not bear close inspection. I fear I may set the laundry women's tongues wagging. Suddenly I am overcome by a wave of tiredness, and slip into bed, where I drift off into a deep sleep. I wake to a hand gently shaking my shoulder.

"Eowyn," says Lothiriel. "It's nearly time for supper. You've slept away most of the afternoon."

I look up at her blearily and rub the sleep from my eyes.

"Did you find Fara?" she asks, then laughs out loud. "I see from your face you found him, and found him in good spirits. Or at least, even if you didn't find him that way, you certainly left him in good spirits." It would seem that, half-asleep, I exercise no control over my facial expressions whatsoever. "I hope you found some time to get him to eat some of the peaches. Anyway, I have organised a treat for you – we've found a bath tub, and I've arranged lots of hot water."

Almost as if on cue (in fact, probably precisely as arranged by Lothíriel) there is a knock at the door, then a couple of maids appear, carrying a wooden tub between them. They set it down in the corner of the room, then return with buckets of hot water. Lothíriel helps me off with my shift and I sink into the water. She perches on the edge of the bed and chatters to me as I bathe, occasionally passing soap or scented oils when I ask.

"What is that mark on your neck?" she asks innocently.

My hand flies up to feel the skin there. "Béma, he didn't, did he?" I yelp.

Lothíriel dissolves into giggles. "Nay, there is no mark, I am only jesting. Still, interesting that you think there might be!" Morgoth's breath, she has been reading Ecthelion! Warfare by deception.

Once I am dried and dressed, we make our way to the small parlour where the healers eat their supper. We dine on bread, cheese and cold meats, but all the fare is fresh, and there is fruit to follow. Then we settle by the fire and play draughts, occasionally engaging in conversation, but for the most part in companionable silence. Eventually, as the hour draws late, I retire to bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I guess correctly; Faramir waits an hour until most people have gone to bed and the corridors are quiet. I hear him lift the latch on the door and slip into my room. His smile, as he walks towards his bed, is bright enough to light the room without my candle. He undresses quickly, then lifts the covers, and climbs in beside me.

"Éowyn," he whispers, then he pulls me close and covers my face with kisses, so many, not all of them aimed quite right, that I burst out laughing. My merriment is infectious, and before we know it, we are both giggling beneath the covers, a joyous moment together.

"I love you, my Barbarian Shieldmaiden," he says, stroking my cheek,. Then, laughing once more, a sound of sheer happiness, he tickles my ribs.

"Tickling is not fair, I can't fight back at the moment," I complain.

"I'll stop when you tell me you love me," says Faramir with a grin.

"I love you, you... you... Gondorian pansy!" I struggle to get the words out between giggles. Faramir stops my mouth with a kiss, his tongue hot and sensuous.

"When I have the use of both arms, you are going to be sorry," I mutter.

"You have no idea how much I am looking forward to that," Faramir whispers, running his hand down my side. "I have this idea that you might turn out to be very good at wrestling," he continues, hand making its way down my leg towards my knee. "We could have it that whoever manages to pin the other one down gets to do whatever they want."

"Not fair," I murmur. "You're heavier." Then I have a vivid flash of him on top of me, his weight pressing into me, and my insides melt.

"Yes, but it's a matter of speed, and skill, and determination," he whispers, hand catching the hem of my shift. "And I think I could prove quite determined to end up with you on top..." He pulls my shift up. "I wonder, what would you choose to do with me if you won?" he asks, the thin material now round my waist. My mouth goes dry. What would I want to do? A flurry of images flood my mind, mostly involving me sitting astride him, riding him as I did earlier. I swallow hard, feeling the heat surging between my legs.

Faramir lifts me gently so that he can ease my shift over my breasts, and with a smooth movement, he pulls it over my head. He pulls me close, and I feel his warm skin against my own. The feel of the hair on his chest against my nipples makes me feel as though the breath has been stolen from my lungs. My stomach twists at the closeness, the way his hard, lithe form sets me aflame with desire, the promise of what is to come. He gently lowers me onto the mattress and pulls the covers back over us, then kisses me again, fingers gently stroking along my jaw and down my neck, the other hand running from my waist, up over my ribs to cup my breast. He draws his lips back from mine, then runs his tongue down my neck, slowly, gently, making low murmuring noises as he goes.

"My beautiful wild woman of the North," he whispers. "I recall making you a promise earlier." His lips ghost over my collar bone and down, his stubble brushing my skin. "And I would not be forsworn." I think at first he is going to kiss my breasts, but he continues his exploration down the valley between them, heading down over my ribs and the skin of my stomach, down to my navel. I tangle my fingers in his hair. The feeling of his lips and beard both tickle and inflame me all at once. Part of me wants to giggle again, part wants... I don't know what I want. His lips move lower, over the gentle curve of my belly.

"Oh," is the most coherent noise I can make. Surely he is not going to go any lower? What if he does? He can't want to kiss me there? Suddenly his mouth envelops me, hot, wet, so very hot. All rational thought flees. I am caught up in the moment. His lips move against me. His tongue licks and slips inside the folds between my legs. I clutch at his hair, holding him close. I think there are words coming from my mouth, his name, that I love him, then words cease too. His tongue circles slowly and deliberately, the warmth of his mouth flowing over me like liquid silk. The world has contracted to the point where his tongue meets me. Then, just as I feel the pleasure has become almost unbearable, he starts to suck at the most sensitive part of me. No words come, just noises, inarticulate noises. I lose all sense of where I end and he begins. My hips move wildly, my breath comes in helpless gasps, waves of heat seem to spread out from where his mouth meets my body. I convulse beneath his hot, hot mouth, screaming something, I know not what, then I sink back against the pillows, tremors still running through my body. I lie, panting, shattered, as if I have dissolved and reformed.

Faramir lifts his head then slides slowly up my body. I look at his face. He has the broadest smile imaginable, satisfied, smug, possessive. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then kisses me, laughing as I wrinkle my nose at the taste. He tastes salty, brackish.

"So that is what I taste like!"

"It's a wonderful taste," Faramir whispers, running his hands over my skin. He moves his hips so that he rubs against me. I can feel his cock hard against my leg.

"You can't mean that," I say.

"Oh but I do. The taste of you is sweeter even than peaches," he laughs. "For the taste of you is indivisible from your pleasure, and and giving you pleasure makes me feel like I am king of the whole world."

And suddenly, belatedly, I realise what he meant earlier when he talked of 'linguistic precision.' I take a fit of the giggles and tell him, and he kisses me.

"I have spent all afternoon and evening looking forward to showing you what I meant," he says with a laugh. "It has distracted me from matters of state in a most improper way." Again, I feel his hips move.

"Should I... Do you want me... How do I do the same to you?"

"You don't need to. No-one is keeping score," he says with a gentle smile. "Maybe one day you will want to, because of what you know it will do to me. But don't do it out of some misplaced feeling of turn and turn about." He gives me a soft kiss, then adds, "But I would very much like to feel your hand there."

I slip my hand round the hard length of him, and begin to stroke, kissing his mouth as I do so. I can feel his hips move, and hear low moans of pleasure. I experiment, alternating between long strokes along his shaft and stroking him between his legs. I marvel at the different sensations under my fingers – the strange firm territory between his legs, so different from me, the incredible velvety softness of the skin on his cock contrasting with the hardness beneath. I take my cue from his movements, the gasps he makes, speeding up my strokes, gripping him harder. I lift my head for a moment, and look at his face, his eyes tight shut, his brows drawn together as if frowning with tension aching to be released. I feel a sudden swell of power within me at the thought of what I am able to do to him. Dipping my head once more I brush my lips against his. My kisses become more urgent, and I slip my tongue within his mouth. I move my hand faster, then suddenly his own hand wraps around mine, gripping, speeding the strokes up. His hips move in time with our hands, rocking against me. With a deep groan, he starts to tremble, and his movements become erratic. I feel his seed spill over my hand, hot and sticky. It is his turn to lie, utterly limp, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I have never seen such beauty: his dark hair spread across the pillow, eyes closed, his expression now soft and full of ease. I let my head settle on his shoulder and breath in the smell of him.

We lie like this for some minutes, until our breathing settles, and the tremors cease. Eventually Faramir reaches out to the chair beside the bed, and grabs the shirt he was wearing earlier. He uses it to mop up the mess. I start to giggle at this.

"You realise the laundry maid will know exactly what you've been up to," I snort. Faramir begins to laugh too. He rolls onto his back and lies with his hands behind his head, and I snuggle up against him.

"You look like a cat that has got into the dairy," I say, tracing my fingers over the dusting of hair on his chest.

"I wonder why that could be?" he says, with a low laugh. "I have a brave, bold, beautiful barbarian shieldmaiden, who is lying naked in my bed, and I have just given her such pleasure that she has screamed my name to the rafters. And then she has woven such magic with her fingers that I too am spent."

I stretch out, and mould my body to the lines of his, and he wraps his arms around me. Now that we are both completely sated, I find that our nakedness takes on a different meaning for me. No longer does it make me burn with desire. Instead I feel so very close to him, at one with him, with nothing to come between us, warm skin against warm skin. I am home, safe, in the place above all others where I belong. I sigh with contentment. Faramir tightens his arms round me and kisses my forehead.

"Will your brother kill me?" he asks, after a long silence.

"Quite probably. Will it have been worth it?" I tease.

"Most definitely," he says with a smile, kissing me once again. Then, typically, he becomes serious for a moment. "Sometimes, it feels as though my thoughts and feelings are at war with themselves. Part of me fears I have wronged you by taking you to bed before we are wedded. But part of me feels this is so right that I can have no regrets."

"My overly-noble Gondorian. Which part is winning?" I ask.

"Well, since I am here in your bed, I think that question is superfluous."

"But you still wonder whether you are thinking with your head, and not with..."

Faramir laughs. "Precisely."

"My lord, allow me to assure you that whatever part of you is doing the thinking, I am more than happy with the outcome. And also, perhaps it would be politic at this point to remind you who did the seducing. For I climbed into your bed."

"Only the first night, when we managed to exercise some restraint. The second night, when our restraint crumbled entirely, it was I who came to your chamber."

"If I recall, our initial restraint was not down to any display of virtue on either of our parts, but merely occasioned by the pain in my confounded arm. And in any case, did you not just say this was not the sort of game where one keeps score?" I reach out and stroke his face, and he kisses my fingertips tenderly.

And then we lie in each other's arms and talk long into the night, of many things. Our love is foremost in our minds, but I also ask him about the political struggles, and tell him of the plans for surveying the Riddermark that I have made with my Riders (I now think of them as 'mine' -whether I will be able to persuade Éomer of this is another issue entirely). It feels so comfortable to be able to talk about anything that comes into our minds, and given the circumstances, unsurprisingly much of what comes into our minds concerns the task of rebuilding our countries. We can ask and offer comfort, compare ideas, seek advice. It strikes me that this is not exactly the sort of pillow-talk I might have expected as a romantic young girl, but it seems so natural and so comforting that I hope that the whole of our lives may follow this pattern. Eventually as the candle gutters and dies, we lapse into silence, and then into a deep sleep.

**Thank you to all of you reading and reviewing this.**


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